There’s an unwritten rule in live music: if your audience spends more time watching the show through their phone than actually reacting to it, you’ve probably lost them.

The Dreamboats seem to have missed that memo.

Or maybe they burned it.

When I sat down with drummer Johnny G. Wiz, I expected to talk about a band playing 1950s and ’60s rock and roll. Instead, we spent a surprising amount of time talking about something much bigger: why so many modern live shows feel forgettable, and why The Dreamboats have built their entire career around making sure theirs isn’t one of them.

This Isn’t Nostalgia. It’s Performance.

Calling The Dreamboats a cover band is technically accurate.

It’s also wildly misleading.

Yes, they perform Buddy Holly, Chuck Berry, Little Richard, and the rest of rock’s founding fathers. But Johnny makes it clear they’re chasing something far more ambitious than faithfully recreating old songs.

They’re recreating an era when seeing a band live actually meant seeing a show.

That means synchronized choreography, duck walks, crab walks, handstands, splits, matching suits, constant movement, audience interaction, and enough energy to make today’s “stand there and stare at your pedalboard” approach feel like a government seminar.

None of it started as choreography.

“It happened because we got bored,” Johnny laughed.

After thousands of performances, the songs became second nature. The band started joking around on stage. Fans loved it. Phones came out. Videos spread across social media. Those little moments eventually became part of the DNA of every Dreamboats performance.

Sometimes the best stage production isn’t designed in a boardroom.

Sometimes it starts because somebody decides to jump off the kick drum.

Entertainment Isn’t Optional

One moment in our conversation hit particularly hard.

Johnny believes too many artists blame ticket sales when the real problem is simpler.

They’re not giving people enough reason to leave the house.

That’s a bold statement in an industry that loves to blame streaming, algorithms, and shrinking attention spans.

But honestly… he’s got a point.

As someone who’s spent years photographing and reviewing concerts, I’ve seen technically flawless bands deliver painfully forgettable performances. I’ve also watched artists with fewer musical fireworks absolutely own a room because they understood one thing:

People remember experiences.

Not perfection.

Johnny put it best when he argued that musicians today are competing with everything else demanding people’s attention. Standing still and playing your songs isn’t enough anymore. If you want people talking about your show on the drive home, or buying tickets the next time you’re in town, you have to give them something worth remembering.

That philosophy isn’t just part of The Dreamboats.

It is The Dreamboats.

The Business Behind the Suits

One thing that became obvious during our conversation is that this band isn’t stumbling into success.

They’re engineering it.

Johnny casually held up a 40-plus-page business plan during the interview.

That’s probably the least rock-and-roll sentence you’ll read today.

But it explains why they’re making the leap from Canadian clubs to American festivals, theaters, and state fairs.

While plenty of artists hope things happen, The Dreamboats reverse-engineer where they want to go and build the roadmap backward.

Their operation is surprisingly lean.

No massive corporate machine.

No army of managers.

Just the four musicians, a videographer capturing nearly every performance, a PR representative, an administrative assistant, and Johnny juggling enough business responsibilities to qualify for several stress-induced bald spots.

He’s handling finances.

Cross-border taxes.

Visas.

Marketing.

Content strategy.

And, somewhere in between all that, he still has to play drums.

It’s enough to make anyone appreciate accountants… at least briefly.

Every Show Creates Tomorrow’s Audience

One of the more interesting conversations centered around social media.

Not because The Dreamboats obsess over follower counts.

Because they understand that every live show should create the audience for the next one.

Their videographer films constantly.

After every performance, Johnny reviews the footage, catalogs clips, writes captions, studies engagement, and builds a content library that keeps the band visible long after the amplifiers cool down.

Ironically, Johnny admits their biggest weakness isn’t creating content.

It’s capturing the people already standing in front of them.

For a band that regularly performs for thousands, he believes they still have work to do converting concertgoers into long-term fans through QR codes, better calls-to-action, and stronger post-show engagement.

Most artists would never volunteer that weakness during an interview.

Johnny did.

That’s usually a good sign.

Keeping Rock and Roll Alive… Literally

Perhaps the most fascinating part of our conversation wasn’t about today’s Dreamboats.

It was about tomorrow’s.

Johnny floated an idea that sounds almost impossible until you think about it.

What if bands didn’t have to die when the original members retired?

Inspired by watching The Wiggles successfully transition to younger performers, he imagines The Dreamboats eventually becoming caretakers of the music rather than simply performers.

New musicians.

New personalities.

Same mission.

Keep this era of rock and roll alive for the next generation.

It’s an interesting thought.

Legacy bands like Foreigner already exist without original members.

KISS practically built a business model where makeup could outlive musicians.

Why couldn’t a band dedicated to preserving classic rock and roll do the same?

Whether that ever happens remains to be seen.

But it tells you how Johnny thinks.

He’s not planning the next tour.

He’s thinking decades ahead.

The Real Secret

Throughout the interview, one thing kept surfacing over and over.

The Dreamboats don’t view themselves as musicians first.

They view themselves as entertainers.

That distinction matters.

Because somewhere along the way, parts of the live music industry forgot that audiences aren’t simply buying songs.

They’re buying memories.

Judging by the packed theaters, festivals, standing ovations, and fans pulling out phones not because they’re bored, but because they don’t want to miss whatever crazy thing happens next, that philosophy seems to be working.

The Dreamboats aren’t trying to recreate yesterday.

They’re reminding the rest of the industry what live music looked like before everyone forgot how to put on a show.

And honestly?

The rest of us could probably use the reminder.

The music business has a strange habit of making years of preparation look like a few minutes of opportunity.

A three-minute audition.

One song in a Nashville recording studio.

A National Anthem before a packed football stadium.

A festival slot somebody managed to squeeze you into after the lineup was technically already finished.

From the outside, those moments can look like lucky breaks.

Stephen Quinn knows better.

Behind each one are voice lessons, writing sessions, bar gigs, early mornings, long audition days, relationships, family support, countless performances and a willingness to keep saying yes when another door cracks open.

Sometimes that door leads to Nashville.

Sometimes Hollywood.

Sometimes onto the field at a Jacksonville Jaguars playoff game.

For Stephen, the destination keeps changing.

The preparation doesn’t.

Nashville Changes Your Perspective

Stephen remembers “Get It Girl” as the first song he had the opportunity to record in Nashville.

That matters.

There is recording music.

Then there is walking into a Nashville session surrounded by players who do this every day.

I’ve spent enough time in those rooms to know how difficult it is to explain the difference to someone who hasn’t experienced it.

The players arrive.

They hear the song.

They chart it.

A count-off happens.

Suddenly it sounds like a record.

Stephen experienced that firsthand.

The musicians involved had résumés connected to artists including Tim McGraw, Reba McEntire and Dolly Parton. Among them was Kent Wells, who played guitar, contributed to the production and added ganjo, the six-string guitar/banjo hybrid, to the track.

Stephen remembers being struck by how smoothly everybody worked.

That’s Nashville.

There isn’t much wasted motion.

Professional studio musicians have spent years developing the ability to hear what a song needs and deliver it quickly.

Stephen had previously recorded with musicians in Florida.

Nashville felt different.

“It’s like a machine up there,” he said.

He meant that as a compliment.

Three Hours Can Change a Song

Nashville recording sessions also teach you the value of preparation very quickly.

The traditional session environment is built around blocks of time.

The clock is real.

You aren’t there indefinitely waiting for inspiration to arrive.

Stephen remembers the “Get It Girl” session lasting roughly three hours.

In that period, musicians had to build their parts, record the foundation and move the song toward the finished product.

Then Stephen had to sing.

That’s not much time to question whether you’re ready.

You’d better be.

Fortunately, he didn’t walk into that room alone.

His mother came with him.

So did someone who has become one of the most important people in his career.

Velvet.

Or, as Stephen has her listed in his phone:

Vocal Mama.

More Than a Voice Coach

Calling Velvet Stephen’s vocal coach is accurate.

It’s also incomplete.

She has been working with him for roughly eight to ten years and, over time, her role expanded far beyond teaching technique.

She helps write his music.

She advises him professionally.

She’s traveled with him to auditions.

She’s helped with creative decisions.

She’s participated in recording sessions and music videos.

When Stephen needs advice about his career, Velvet is one of the first calls.

Sometimes they don’t work on music at all.

They just talk.

That’s what happens when the right mentor becomes part of an artist’s life.

The relationship started simply enough.

Stephen had worked with other vocal coaches around Jacksonville but hadn’t found quite the right fit. A friend referred him to Velvet.

They connected immediately.

Years later, she’s still there.

That’s significant.

Careers are filled with people who appear for one season.

Finding someone who genuinely wants to see you succeed for the long haul is considerably rarer.

Why You Bring the Vocal Coach to the Studio

I’ve always encouraged vocalists to bring their vocal coach into recording sessions whenever possible.

Stephen’s experience demonstrates exactly why.

The studio changes the way a singer thinks.

You’re concentrating on lyrics.

Pitch.

Timing.

Microphone technique.

Emotion.

The producer.

The engineer.

The headphones.

The fact that the clock is running.

Meanwhile, a vocal coach can listen exclusively to the voice.

Velvet hears technical details Stephen may miss while he’s concentrating on everything else.

Maybe a note needs a different approach.

Maybe a phrase can be delivered more effectively.

Maybe the issue is technical.

Maybe it’s creative.

The best coaching doesn’t turn singers into someone else.

It helps them reach the performance they’re already capable of giving.

And, ironically, spending money to have another professional in the room can sometimes save money because the singer gets there faster.

Writing Starts With a Piano

Velvet’s contribution also extends into Stephen’s songwriting.

Their process is surprisingly stripped down.

A room.

A piano.

Two people.

That’s it.

Stephen considers himself primarily a lyricist, while Velvet’s piano provides the musical foundation.

It’s a different image from the Nashville songwriter stereotype of two people sitting across from one another holding acoustic guitars.

But the instrument doesn’t matter.

The song does.

They work through lyrics and melody together, and when something isn’t happening, they don’t force it.

Stop.

Come back later.

Even when they believe a song is finished, they prefer living with it for a week.

Listen.

Think about it.

Come back.

Does that line still work?

Does the chorus still land?

Sometimes distance is the best songwriting tool you have.

And the work tape?

An iPhone voice memo.

No expensive rig required.

The point isn’t making a record.

It’s making sure tomorrow’s Stephen remembers what today’s Stephen just wrote.

Sometimes the Song Arrives After You Leave

“Get It Girl” is a perfect example of why creative work rarely respects office hours.

Stephen and Velvet had been attempting to write.

Nothing was happening.

Eventually Stephen left.

Then his phone went off.

Velvet sent a voice memo.

She had the hook for “Get It Girl.”

Suddenly the writing session that hadn’t produced much had followed him out the door.

Stephen heard the idea and immediately knew they had something.

They reconvened the following week and wrote most of the song in roughly a day.

That’s songwriting.

You can spend hours staring at a blank page.

Then the hook arrives when everyone has already gone home.

From a Song to a Room Full of People

Recording “Get It Girl” was only part of the project.

Stephen wanted a video.

Instead of trying to manufacture an environment, he used one he already belonged to.

Southern Social.

At the time, Stephen had been performing there every Thursday for roughly four years.

The people weren’t strangers recruited to look like fans.

They were actually part of his world.

Friends.

Family.

Regulars.

People who had watched him play week after week.

So Stephen and Velvet decided to bring them into the video.

The shoot happened across two nights.

One focused heavily on dancing.

The dancers weren’t hired professionals. They were couples Stephen knew from the bar who happened to be good enough to pull off flips, tricks and everything else the concept needed.

Velvet and her daughter even helped put together a line dance.

Then there was the actual “Get It Girl,” a longtime family friend who had spent years dancing and cheerleading and possessed exactly the personality they needed.

Most importantly, according to Stephen, she wasn’t taller than him.

Apparently this was a crucial casting requirement.

Play It Again

The second night brought the band into the room.

Then came the glamorous side of music videos.

Play the same song.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Get another angle.

Do it again.

Need another crowd shot.

Again.

At some point, everyone involved reaches the stage where they wonder whether they’d be perfectly happy never hearing the song again.

Then the edit comes back.

Suddenly it makes sense.

For Stephen, that was one of those moments when the work became tangible.

He and Velvet had written the song.

Stephen had recorded it.

They helped develop the video’s concept.

The videographers translated those ideas onto the screen.

Now the story existed visually.

Sometimes Stephen will be at his parents’ house and a family member will put the video on the television.

He’ll catch himself thinking:

Oh yeah. I did that.

Artists can be surprisingly good at forgetting their own milestones.

They’re usually too busy worrying about the next one.

Before Nashville, There Was American Idol

Long before Stephen was recording “Get It Girl” with Nashville session musicians, American Idol had already occupied a special place in his life.

His family watched the show together when he was growing up.

This was the landline era.

The family would sit down, watch the performances and vote from the house phone.

Years later, Stephen wasn’t voting.

He was auditioning.

His first American Idol audition came in 2018 at Disney Springs in Orlando.

He and his mother arrived around 4:30 or 5 in the morning.

The audition was outdoors.

In Florida.

In August.

Because apparently the music business believes dehydration builds character.

Thousands of people went through the cattle-call process as producers sat beneath pop-up tents evaluating singers.

Stephen made it through one audition.

Then another.

The day didn’t end until roughly three in the afternoon.

And that was just the beginning.

Thirty People and a Golden Ticket

The next major audition happened in October.

On Stephen’s 18th birthday.

This time, he was going in front of Luke Bryan, Lionel Richie and Katy Perry during their first season as judges.

And Stephen did not exactly arrive alone.

He brought around 30 people.

Matching shirts.

Neon pink.

Neon green.

Custom logo.

Large cutout heads on sticks.

The whole operation.

Most artists show up with moral support.

Stephen apparently arrived with a small organized fan club.

The audition day stretched from early morning until around one the next morning.

And at the end of the process, Stephen had what he’d hoped for.

A golden ticket.

Hollywood was next.

The Dolby Theatre

Roughly 150 contestants were eventually flown to Hollywood.

Stephen found himself staying at the Roosevelt Hotel and performing during Hollywood Week at the Dolby Theatre.

That’s another sentence he occasionally has to remind himself is actually part of his life.

He stood on that stage.

He performed.

He experienced the strange mixture of competition, television production, friendship and exhaustion that viewers never fully see.

The process also created relationships.

Stephen remains connected with some of the contestants he met during the experience.

That’s an aspect of competitions like American Idol that rarely gets enough attention.

The television show needs winners and eliminations.

The singers often leave with a network.

They’re surrounded by people from across the country who are chasing the exact same thing.

Top 50

Stephen eventually reached the Top 50.

For him, that performance remains the highlight of the entire experience.

The show brought in a live audience.

Behind him was a large band, complete with background vocalists.

The judges were there.

Hundreds of people were watching.

And Stephen finally found himself in the environment where he feels most comfortable.

A stage.

A crowd.

He performed Justin Moore’s “Somebody Else Will.”

The audience responded.

The judges were positive.

Then came the reality of television competition.

Fifty had to become 25.

Stephen didn’t advance.

But his perspective on that cut is important.

He had already watched incredibly talented singers leave before him.

American Idol isn’t a scientific measurement determining the 25 objectively greatest singers in America.

It’s television.

There are casting considerations.

Storylines.

Genres.

Personalities.

A show has to be assembled.

Stephen understood that.

He left without winning American Idol.

He also left having performed at the Dolby Theatre and reached the Top 50 of a national competition.

Those things can exist at the same time.

The Stage Is Where He Makes Sense

One thing became increasingly obvious while talking with Stephen.

He is a live performer.

That’s where he seems most at home.

His favorite American Idol experience was the moment the audience arrived.

His favorite opportunities continue to revolve around getting in front of people.

Even his approach to nerves reflects it.

Stephen doesn’t like calling the feeling nervousness.

He reframes it.

Excited.

Anxious.

Adrenaline.

The physical response may be similar, but what you call it determines what you do with it.

Instead of allowing nerves to steal the moment, Stephen tries to absorb it.

That’s something he learned with experience.

His original audition for the celebrity judges?

He barely remembers it.

His brain essentially checked out.

Years later, standing in front of a football stadium full of people, he made a point of remembering everything.

The National Anthem

Stephen has performed “The Star-Spangled Banner” at major events, including a Jacksonville Jaguars playoff game against the Tennessee Titans.

That’s pressure.

One singer.

No lyric sheet.

A notoriously difficult melody.

A stadium full of people who know exactly how the song is supposed to sound.

And Stephen loves performing it.

His favorite moment is the high falsetto section.

It’s also the part carrying the most risk.

That’s precisely why he enjoys it.

Everybody knows it’s coming.

Everybody waits for it.

Then the adrenaline hits.

But Stephen makes one important creative decision when he performs the Anthem.

He doesn’t reinvent it.

Over the years, veterans have approached him after performances to thank him specifically for staying close to the traditional melody.

No excessive runs.

No attempt to turn the Anthem into a vocal gymnastics competition.

Less is more.

I happen to agree.

There are songs where reinterpretation is welcome.

Sometimes respecting the composition is the interpretation.

“Stand Up”

That respect for country, family and service also appears in Stephen’s original music.

“Stand Up” grew out of values he associates with his upbringing.

Stephen describes himself as having grown up “country,” although not in the stereotypical sense.

No cattle ranch.

No horses before school.

Country, to Stephen, describes how he was raised.

Respect people.

Yes, ma’am.

No, sir.

Love your family.

Value your freedom.

Both grandfathers served in the Navy, and other relatives served in the military as well.

Those ideas became part of the foundation beneath “Stand Up.”

The song speaks about family, faith, freedom and the desire to see people come together rather than drift further apart.

Whatever political or cultural disagreements may exist around those ideas, Stephen’s intention is personal rather than abstract.

It’s the world he grew up in.

And audiences respond.

Stephen plays “Stand Up” at most of his shows.

Frequently, people literally stand.

There aren’t many better demonstrations of whether a song is connecting.

Home Still Matters

For all the experiences outside Florida, Nashville, Hollywood, national television, Jacksonville remains central to Stephen’s story.

That’s where Velvet is.

That’s where Southern Social helped provide the community behind “Get It Girl.”

That’s where his family is.

That’s where he performed the Anthem for the Jaguars.

And it’s where another long-held goal became reality when he landed a spot at Country Fest at the Seawalk Pavilion.

The opportunity came through a connection with Amadeus from 99.1 Gator Country.

By the time Stephen reached the booking contact, much of the lineup had already been established.

They told him they could potentially work him into the following year’s event.

Stephen had another question.

Can you fit me in this year?

Not with the full band.

But there was room for an acoustic set.

Perfect.

He was in.

That’s another lesson buried inside Stephen Quinn’s career.

Sometimes the opportunity doesn’t look exactly how you imagined it.

Take it anyway.

It’s All About Who You Know, And What You Do With It

People occasionally talk about the music business being based on relationships as though that’s somehow unfair.

Of course it’s based on relationships.

Almost every business is.

Stephen readily admits that connections have helped him.

A friend connected him to Velvet.

Velvet became a songwriting and career partner.

Relationships helped create recording opportunities.

Radio connections helped put him in front of festival organizers.

But a contact can only open the door.

Stephen still has to walk through it.

He still has to sing.

He still has to write the song.

He still has to perform when the audience shows up.

Networking without preparation gets exposed remarkably quickly.

Stephen keeps preparing.

The Unsung Hero Was Obvious

When I asked Stephen who deserved his Unsung Hero recognition, there wasn’t much suspense.

Velvet.

By that point we’d spent much of the interview talking about her anyway.

Voice coach.

Co-writer.

Advisor.

Audition companion.

Creative collaborator.

Occasional therapist.

Vocal Mama.

Stephen said she changed his life and his career.

More importantly, he believes she’ll be there until the end.

That kind of faith in another person isn’t created through one successful session.

It’s created over years.

Velvet has already experienced parts of the journey Stephen is navigating. She sang professionally. She lived in Nashville. She understands enough of the excitement and disappointment to know when Stephen needs instruction and when he simply needs someone to listen.

Every artist needs people in the room who want something from them.

A song.

A performance.

A percentage.

A ticket sale.

A post.

A stream.

The lucky ones also find a few people who simply want something for them.

Stephen appears to have found one.

Ready for the Next Stage

Stephen Quinn’s career hasn’t followed one clean trajectory.

Most don’t.

Florida bars led to songwriting.

Songwriting led to recording.

A childhood obsession with American Idol eventually put him on its stage.

Nashville gave him the chance to hear what elite session musicians could do with one of his songs.

A hometown football game put him in front of tens of thousands of people.

One relationship leads to another opportunity.

One opportunity becomes another story.

And Stephen keeps showing up.

That’s really the thread connecting everything.

Not fame.

Not television.

Not Nashville.

Readiness.

Because there will always be another singer who can hit the note.

Another songwriter with a good hook.

Another artist sending an email asking for the same festival slot.

You can’t control every decision.

Stephen learned that on American Idol.

What you can control is whether you’re prepared when someone finally says yes.

Stephen Quinn has spent years learning how to be ready.

Now he just needs the next door to open.

At 11 years old, Stephanie Rabus underwent open-heart surgery.

Thirty-three years later, she found herself dealing with her heart again.

And somewhere between those two moments, she built a life around singing.

There are coincidences.

Then there are circles so perfectly drawn that you have to wonder whether somebody knew where the story was going before you did.

Stephanie was born with pulmonary stenosis, a condition affecting the pulmonary valve and the heart’s ability to properly move blood. Doctors initially attempted balloon catheter procedures when she was young, but by age 11, surgery became necessary.

That same period of her life also brought another discovery.

Stephanie could sing.

Her father played drums for an Elvis impersonator who happened to live next door. Stephanie borrowed the microphone one day and sang “Part of Your World” from The Little Mermaid a cappella.

People listened.

Then they looked at one another.

Apparently, the kid could really sing.

Thirty-three years later, at 44, Stephanie underwent another heart procedure.

And almost simultaneously, she was preparing to release a song about refusing to give up on the dream she discovered when she was 11.

It’s called “I Told Me So.”

Sometimes subtlety is overrated.

When the Heart Changes the Story

Stephanie remembers enough about that first surgery to remember being scared.

She was a kid in Arizona.

It was summer.

There was a swimming pool in the backyard.

Other children were doing normal summer things while she was facing open-heart surgery and months of recovery.

The medical details were complicated.

The emotional reality wasn’t.

She was scared.

One memory remains particularly vivid.

Because Stephanie was afraid of needles, anesthesia was administered through a mask rather than an IV. The mask had a strong strawberry scent, presumably somebody’s attempt at making the experience less frightening.

It didn’t work.

As she went under, Stephanie remembers feeling like she was suffocating.

Her last conscious thought was that she was dying.

Then she woke up.

The surgery was over.

Recovery wasn’t.

There was pain.

Breathing exercises.

Restrictions.

A young body trying to understand why it couldn’t immediately return to everything it had done before.

But eventually it did.

And life moved on.

Thirty-Three Years Later

The problem with heart valves is that repairing one doesn’t necessarily mean you’ve finished thinking about it forever.

Years later, Stephanie began noticing heart palpitations she’d never experienced before.

Testing followed.

MRIs.

CT scans.

More appointments.

Doctors eventually diagnosed pulmonary regurgitation, essentially a leaking pulmonary valve.

Stephanie described the leak as roughly 36 percent and in the moderate-to-severe range.

One option was another open-heart surgery.

Stephanie’s reaction was fairly straightforward.

Please, no.

Beyond the obvious concern of another major operation, open-heart surgery would have required a lengthy recovery.

Three or four months away from performing isn’t a small inconvenience when singing is how you pay the bills.

Fortunately, medicine had changed substantially in the 33 years since her first operation.

Doctors were able to perform a transcatheter pulmonary valve replacement using what is called a Harmony valve.

Instead of opening Stephanie’s chest, the replacement valve was delivered through a catheter inserted near the groin and guided into position in the heart.

A procedure addressing the same organ that once required major surgery now left little more than a tiny entry point.

That’s remarkable.

So is what Stephanie did next.

She went back to work.

The Show Must Go On, Just Maybe From a Stool

Less than two weeks after the procedure, Stephanie was already performing again.

Not exactly at full capacity.

She sat on a stool more than usual.

She let other singers handle additional material.

She avoided pushing the big notes.

But she was there.

A few scheduled Illinois performances requiring a five-hour drive had to be canceled because the travel simply wasn’t realistic yet.

But a Broadway gig in Nashville?

Stephanie found a way.

The reason wasn’t some romanticized version of suffering for art.

It was considerably more practical.

Musicians don’t get many sick days.

There isn’t always paid medical leave.

The bills don’t become sentimental because you just had a heart procedure.

For working musicians, missing shows means missing income.

Stephanie eased back into performing because she had to.

She also wanted to.

There’s a difference between recklessness and knowing that eventually the body has to start doing what it does again.

Stephanie was careful.

But she wasn’t interested in staying still forever.

A Dream That Refuses to Leave

That makes “I Told Me So” feel almost unnervingly appropriate.

Stephanie wrote the song a couple of years earlier with Mark Roma and Greg Matthews.

The writing session wasn’t originally designed around some clever commercial concept.

They were talking.

All three understood the frustration of chasing creative careers.

Mark and Greg as songwriters.

Stephanie as an artist.

The highs.

The lows.

The moments when everything feels like it’s finally moving.

Then the stretches where nothing seems to happen at all.

Anyone who has spent significant time in the music business knows the cycle.

Confidence and doubt occupy the same room.

One part of you says you’re wasting your time.

Another refuses to quit.

Eventually, the conversation turned into the song.

“I Told Me So” is built around that second voice.

The one that believes.

The one that imagines a future version of yourself looking backward and saying:

See?

I told you I could do it.

Not “they told me.”

Not a manager.

Not a label.

Not a critic.

Not an audience.

I told me so.

That’s an important distinction.

One Writer Never Got to Hear It

The song also carries a weight Stephanie never intended when they wrote it.

After recording an early version, she reached back out through the group message from the original writing session.

She hadn’t spoken with Greg Matthews for some time.

Mark responded and explained that Greg had become seriously ill.

He might not be able to answer.

A few days later, Mark sent another message.

Greg had passed away.

He never heard the finished recording.

That’s difficult enough on its own.

It becomes even heavier when you remember what the song is about.

Greg had been enthusiastic about it during the writing session.

He believed Stephanie needed to record it.

And eventually she did.

The original voice memo from that session now carries an entirely different significance.

Greg.

A guitar.

The song before it became a production.

The first version of an idea he would never hear finished.

Stephanie cherishes that recording now.

Work tapes aren’t usually considered precious things.

Sometimes they become exactly that.

The Song Before the Record

Stephanie has written songs in several ways over the years.

When she’s alone, lyrics and melody can arrive almost simultaneously.

She’ll think of a line and hear the way it should be sung in her head.

As a younger songwriter, she sometimes wrote complete songs a cappella because she could hear the melody without having the instrumental ability to support it.

She is working on guitar now, but she still relies heavily on her ear.

She can sing an idea to a guitarist.

They find the chords underneath it.

The song begins taking shape.

With “I Told Me So,” the beginning was even simpler.

Greg played guitar.

They talked through ideas.

Lyrics started getting thrown around the room.

Someone offered a line.

Someone else improved it.

Then came that moment co-writers know well.

That’s it.

Lock it.

The work tape was a voice memo.

From there, the song eventually went directly toward the master.

No elaborate demo stage.

Just the song and enough confidence to start building.

The House of David

For the recording, Stephanie worked with producer and engineer Brandon Henniger at the House of David studio in Nashville.

Walking into a studio with history changes the atmosphere.

There are rooms where you immediately understand you’re not the first person who arrived hoping to make something matter.

Photos line the walls.

Names hang in the air.

Stories accumulate in the corners.

Stephanie compared the feeling to visiting the Grand Ole Opry.

The first time she attended the Opry, the significance of the room hit her emotionally.

She cried.

It’s not simply architecture.

For people who have spent years dreaming about country music, some places represent the dream itself.

Stephanie hasn’t performed on the Opry stage.

Yet.

That word matters to her.

She has been backstage several times through musicians she knows and has become increasingly familiar with the world surrounding it.

She’s close enough to see the circle.

Now she wants to stand inside it.

Finding the Right Key

“I Told Me So” changed almost immediately once the Nashville session musicians got involved.

Stephanie initially selected a key.

She began singing.

Something didn’t feel quite right.

Then one of the musicians, whom Stephanie believes was session leader Michael Webb, said what everyone needed to hear.

You can do this higher.

He recognized that the original key wasn’t sitting in Stephanie’s strongest vocal range.

They moved it.

Suddenly the song landed where it belonged.

That’s one of the values of working with elite session musicians that rarely gets discussed.

They’re not simply there to execute a chart.

They listen.

They understand singers.

They understand arrangements.

They understand where a song wants to sit.

And they’ve done it enough times to recognize the problem quickly.

Watching Nashville Musicians Do Nashville Musician Things

Stephanie has performed with bands for years.

She understands rehearsals.

Everybody learns the material.

You get into a room.

Work through it.

Fix the mistakes.

Run it again.

Nashville sessions operate differently.

The players walk in.

There’s a chart.

Someone counts.

They play.

And suddenly the thing sounds like a record.

For “I Told Me So,” that experience was still relatively new for Stephanie because she hadn’t always been present when musicians tracked her previous material.

On her album My Time Now, the producer handled the instrumental sessions separately before Stephanie returned later to record vocals.

This time she got to watch everything happen.

She saw the musicians hear the material and build around it.

The piano entered.

The arrangement expanded.

A work tape featuring one voice and one guitar suddenly became something larger.

Stephanie and Brandon’s girlfriend sat listening as the song came together.

“It’s so beautiful,” they kept saying.

That transformation never really gets old.

I’ve watched world-class session players do it countless times, and it remains one of the most impressive things about making records in Nashville.

They make difficult work look suspiciously easy.

Traditional Without Being Trapped in Time

The first version of the production leaned more traditional.

Stephanie loves ’80s and ’90s country, so there was nothing inherently wrong with that.

But she and the team didn’t want “I Told Me So” to sound like somebody had discovered an unreleased master sitting in a vault since 1992.

Traditional influence?

Absolutely.

Time capsule?

No.

They wanted enough modern production around the song to place it comfortably beside current country music without sacrificing what made the original arrangement work.

Over time they adjusted the production.

Balances changed.

Ideas evolved.

The song became a little more contemporary while maintaining its country foundation.

That’s a difficult balance.

Especially now, when country music itself seems increasingly willing to reach backward while moving forward.

Stephanie’s approach fits naturally into that space.

Honor what made the records great.

Don’t pretend nothing has changed since then.

Performance Before Perfection

When Stephanie returned for the dedicated vocal session, she approached the recording in a way I strongly prefer.

Sing the whole song.

Then listen.

The first verse works?

Keep it.

That chorus could be stronger?

Do it again.

A particular line doesn’t quite land?

Punch it.

But begin with a performance.

Another producer Stephanie previously worked with preferred grouping sections together—record all the verses while the voice sits in one place, then record choruses, then the bridge.

There is logic behind that.

It can create vocal consistency.

Stephanie simply prefers singing the story from beginning to end.

I agree.

Especially for singers who spend significant time performing live.

A song has momentum.

The first verse affects the chorus.

The chorus changes the way you enter the next verse.

The bridge feels different because you had to travel through the song to reach it.

You can assemble a technically perfect vocal one piece at a time.

That doesn’t guarantee it feels like somebody actually sang the song.

When Technology Helps, and When It Takes Over

Stephanie is also realistic about pitch correction.

She’s a perfectionist.

She wants the vocal right.

But she wants her vocal.

If an emotional performance is fantastic and one tiny note lands slightly flat, moving that note isn’t a moral crisis.

The technology exists.

Use it.

The problem comes when technology stops correcting the performance and begins manufacturing one.

Stephanie has little patience for artists who can only sound convincing after the studio has reconstructed the vocal from the ground up.

She wants people who can sing.

That may sound obvious.

The modern recording industry occasionally makes it necessary to say anyway.

I spent part of my own Nashville career tuning vocals, so I know how far that pursuit of perfection can go.

There were sessions where every word was tuned whether it needed correction or not.

Not because the singer couldn’t perform.

Because everybody else’s records sounded perfectly controlled, and nobody wanted theirs to be less perfect.

The irony is that perfection can eventually erase personality.

Stephanie understands that.

Fix what needs fixing.

Then leave the human being alone.

Taking Care of the Instrument

The voice has become even more important to Stephanie as she gets older.

She recently worked with a voice therapist after experiencing some hoarseness.

Doctors examined her vocal folds and found no nodules, which was good news, but there was some thickening that could be addressed through therapy and improved technique.

The examination itself involved sending a tiny camera through her nose and down toward the vocal folds.

Stephanie was awake.

For reasons I don’t completely understand, she wished she could watch.

I absolutely would not.

The therapy taught her more about breathing, hydration, vocal placement and the difference between simply forcing high notes and learning how to mix chest and head voice efficiently.

She also learned something singers frequently misunderstand.

Drinking a glass of water five minutes before singing doesn’t instantly hydrate your vocal cords.

Hydration is something you maintain.

Coffee?

Add water.

Alcohol?

More water.

Her vocal therapist had even toured with artists, sometimes reminding them to save the alcohol until after the show.

Turns out vocal longevity involves slightly more discipline than simply owning a microphone.

She Plans on Keeping the Voice

Stephanie has seen artists reach a point in their careers where the voice simply isn’t what it once was.

She doesn’t want that.

Range may change.

Hormones may affect tone.

Age may alter where certain notes live.

But she was told there’s no reason singers should simply expect to lose their voices if they properly care for them.

Stephanie takes that seriously.

She isn’t 20 anymore.

She is also not apologizing for being 44.

That’s another important part of her story.

Because country music has historically treated age—particularly for women—as though somebody flipped an expiration date on the artist.

Stephanie refuses to accept that definition of a career.

What Does “Making It” Mean Anyway?

Ask a young artist what making it means and the answer is usually easy.

Record deal.

Awards.

CMA stage.

Grammy.

Grand Ole Opry.

Fame.

Stephanie had versions of those dreams too.

She still wants some of them.

Especially the Opry.

But experience has changed the definition.

Today an independent artist can build an audience directly.

Social media.

Ticketed shows.

Merchandise.

Streaming.

Monetized content.

Fan communities.

You can support yourself through music without becoming so famous you can’t buy toilet paper at Walmart without signing autographs.

Stephanie isn’t sure she even wants that version anymore.

But she does want more.

She wants original shows where people buy tickets specifically to see her.

She wants the fanbase to grow.

She wants the income from original music to become more sustainable.

And yes, she wants to perform on the Grand Ole Opry.

Those aren’t unrealistic dreams simply because she reached her forties.

“I Told Me So” is practically her answer to anyone suggesting otherwise.

Broadway Isn’t Quite What Tourists Think

Stephanie already makes her living through music.

Part of that means working Nashville’s Broadway clubs.

To tourists, Broadway can look like the center of the country music universe.

Bands everywhere.

Packed clubs.

Thousands of visitors.

Music pouring through every doorway.

Surely the musicians are doing wonderfully.

Not necessarily.

The venues provide a base rate, but musicians often depend heavily on tips.

And tips are unpredictable.

Some days are good.

Some aren’t.

Stephanie described shifts where musicians might leave with only a small amount each.

Others might produce $100, $150 or considerably more.

A strong day at a place like Legends Corner can be worthwhile.

Another shift can make you wonder why you bothered loading the gear.

That’s working music.

The glamorous version doesn’t usually include somebody carrying a tip container through the crowd.

The real version does.

The Hardest Audience Isn’t Always the Smallest

Stephanie has also learned which crowds are difficult.

It isn’t necessarily the quiet room.

It’s the crowd that isn’t there for music in the first place.

They’re there to drink.

Party.

Get loud.

The band is effectively background music with amplifiers.

For a singer who actually cares about delivering a song, that can be frustrating.

Stephanie prefers the Nashville rooms that allow her to remain rooted in country.

’90s material.

Earlier country.

Miranda Lambert.

Little Big Town.

Carrie Underwood.

Songs that suit what she does.

She hasn’t felt tremendous pressure in her regular circuit to transform the set into something she doesn’t recognize.

Other Broadway rooms may require a different energy.

That’s fine.

Every room has a personality.

Not every room has to be hers.

Jerry Rabus, Once Again

There was never much mystery surrounding one of Stephanie’s most consistent supporters.

Her father, Jerry Rabus, has somehow become a recurring character on The Jay Franze Show without technically being a cast member.

He responds to Questions of the Day.

He shares Stephanie’s work.

He supports the show.

He supports her.

We have uttered the phrase “Jerry Rabus, father of Stephanie Rabus” enough times that it may eventually require its own trademark.

Stephanie describes him as endlessly enthusiastic about her career.

He was there when she recorded her vocals for “I Told Me So.”

He’s there reminding her to stay active on social media.

Post today.

Make the video.

Share the thing.

Keep moving.

He’s also apparently a fan of my book Standout or Fade Out, which means I am contractually obligated to describe Jerry as a man of exceptional judgment.

But this time Stephanie also wanted to make sure her mother received credit.

Her mother may not be as loud about the support.

She’s still there.

She attended Stephanie’s gigs regularly before health issues made that more difficult.

She has always believed in her daughter.

Not everybody supports publicly.

Some people simply remain beside you.

Both matter.

Support Sometimes Looks Like Family

Stephanie also has a small circle surrounding the music professionally.

Producer Brandon Henniger is connected to her life personally as well: Stephanie’s boyfriend Britt’s sister, Heather, is Brandon’s girlfriend.

The family tree takes a second.

The useful part is considerably simpler.

Stephanie happens to have a talented producer and engineer within her extended personal circle.

Sometimes Nashville networking really does become family networking.

Between Brandon, Britt, Heather, her parents, musicians, friends and collaborators, Stephanie understands that she isn’t chasing this completely alone.

That’s important.

Especially after decades.

Why Stop Now?

People occasionally ask Stephanie why she’s still doing this.

She’s 44.

The industry’s youth obsession is hardly a secret.

Shouldn’t the dream have happened already?

Shouldn’t she move on?

Stephanie’s answer is contained in the song.

Why?

Because she isn’t finished.

Because she’s already built a life where music is what she does.

Because success isn’t one single finish line.

Because she still sees another version of the career ahead of her.

And because there is a part of her that has always believed she can get there.

Think about the timeline.

At 11, Stephanie went through open-heart surgery.

Around that same age, she discovered she could sing.

She spent the next 33 years chasing music.

At 44, her heart required another intervention.

Within two weeks, she was back onstage.

And at almost the exact same moment, she was releasing a song she had written about continuing to believe in the dream when every reasonable voice might suggest letting it go.

You couldn’t manufacture that narrative if you tried.

I Told Me So

There will probably be more procedures.

Stephanie knows that.

The replacement valve may eventually need to be replaced again.

Maybe through another catheter procedure.

Maybe someday through surgery.

She can’t control that.

She can take care of herself.

She can protect her voice.

She can keep writing.

She can keep performing.

She can keep pushing toward the Opry.

The future will decide the rest.

That’s ultimately what “I Told Me So” represents.

Not certainty.

Belief.

There is a difference.

Certainty says you know exactly how the story ends.

Belief says you’re willing to keep moving even when you don’t.

Stephanie Rabus has spent most of her life doing exactly that.

A repaired heart.

A microphone.

A dream that apparently doesn’t understand when it’s supposed to leave.

Maybe someday Stephanie will stand on the Grand Ole Opry stage and look back on all of this.

The surgeries.

The tip jars.

The writing rooms.

The disappointments.

The sessions.

The gigs where nobody listened.

The people who told her she was getting too old.

And maybe she’ll finally get to say the line exactly the way it was meant to be said.

I told me so.