Cosmos Ray emerges fully formed with his powerful debut solo album: The More We Live, after years in the music scene being a frontman, a collaborator, and a sonic curator. Cosmos Ray steps into the light not just as a solo artist, but as a messenger of radical love, complex truth, and genre-defiant sound. We chat to Cosmos Ray about all things music below.
You’ve been immersed in Chicago’s music scene for years. How did that community shape your evolution into a solo artist?
Chicago shaped everything. It’s a city where the music never stops—where you can catch a jazz trio in a dive bar, a reggae selector spinning 45s in a backroom, or a cypher popping off on a corner. I came up in that energy, and it gave me my foundation.
I got my start in the city’s hip hop scene as hype man for Mr. Greenweedz of the Unison crew—legendary artists like Capital D, Tone B Nimble, O Type Star, Yuani, and (g)riot. That era was like an apprenticeship. I learned how beats were built from scratch, how lyrics carried weight, and how presence mattered just as much as production. Being onstage with Greenweedz showed me how to hold space—how to read a crowd, deliver with intention, and bring energy that connects.
As I grew, I stepped into the frontman role with Star People and later Akasha. That’s where I really found my voice—pushing beyond genre, bringing soul, rock, reggae, and hip hop into one expression. Performing live deepened my understanding of music, and I got more hands-on with recording and production. I started out using Logic Pro, but everything shifted when I linked with Elliot Ross from The Drastics, who introduced me to Ableton Live. That became my main creative engine—every track on The More We Live (except “Sin Tax” and “It Is What It Is” both produced by Nic The Graduate) was produced in Ableton. I also co-produced “Fade Into You” with Nic the Graduate, who brought his own flavor to the project.
Akasha also led me deep into reggae. We didn’t just play the style—we studied it, lived it. That passion evolved into Simmer Down Sound, a monthly vinyl night at the Double Door where we spotlighted Jamaican music culture. Later, I began DJing at Rocksteady, a reggae night on Sundays at The Shrine, which taught me a lot about flow, transitions, and how songs speak to each other in real time. That fed directly into how I produce and arrange music now.
All of those experiences—hip hop, bands, DJing, production, community—they built me. Chicago gave me the tools, the mentors, and the moments that made me the artist I am today. The More We Live is a reflection of all of it.
With such a broad sound palette — hip-hop, electronica, reggae, soul — what does your production process actually look like from track to track?
My process is fluid—it’s more about feeling than formula. Most tracks start with a riff, a texture, or a sonic idea that sparks something in me. That could be a guitar loop, a synth line, or even a voice memo I recorded on my phone in the middle of the night. I rarely begin with vocals or lyrics—those usually come after the music starts to take shape.
Once I’ve got a central idea, I start building the drums. That rhythm lays the foundation for everything else. From there, I might layer harmonies or different instruments, or shape the sound into something unexpected. It’s like sculpting—you chip away, layer by layer, until the vibe reveals itself. I think that’s why my production has its own sound.
Take “Heavy (The Blame Is),” for example. That started as a raw acoustic guitar riff I recorded on my phone. I imported it into Ableton Live and transformed it into a synth, then added ARP 2600-style drums to give it a kind of new wave feel—something that reminded me of Depeche Mode. After that, the track just spoke—the arrangement, the melody, the harmony, and the lyrics all flowed from that initial idea.
Same with “Free 2 Birds.” Another acoustic phone recording turned into something bigger through layering and experimentation.
“When You’re Gone (Conversations With My Selves)” had a different origin. I was just exploring some soft synths and stumbled on that initial texture and made a demo that I really liked. Then I took it to Akasha and we played a heavy, live version that leaned into a rock, almost Black Sabbath space, which I loved. But for the album, I wanted a hybrid—so I brought in Doug Bistrow on bass and Rollin Weary (who also mixed most of the album) on guitar. The final sound ended up somewhere between P-Funk and Sabbath, which felt just right.
The “Recall” interludes were pure experimentation—me trying out different synths and sonic moods, letting each one be a kind of dream or memory fragment. I fleshed out the theme and lyrics for those as the album took more shape.
And for “Waking Breath,” I had a clear vision: I wanted to build a choir. So I stacked layers of vocal harmonies over a dusty, lo-fi hip hop beat. That one was about creating emotional gravity through simplicity.
At the end of the day, each track on The More We Live started differently, but they all followed the same basic vibe: listen to the sound, follow the feeling.
Were there any specific artists or albums you returned to as creative touchstones while making The More We Live?
Absolutely. There were so many artists that shaped the spirit of The More We Live—directly or indirectly. Some of them were like sonic mentors, others were reminders to stay fearless. Off top: Massive Attack, Portishead, Frank Ocean, Gorillaz, FKA twigs, Blood Orange, A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, Wu-Tang Clan, J Dilla, CeeLo, Andre 3000, Jimi Hendrix, Sly and the Family Stone, David Bowie, Brian Eno, Depeche Mode, Fela Kuti, Public Enemy, Supercat, The Cure, U2, I-Octane, Parliament-Funkadelic, Black Sabbath, Janelle Monáe, Prince, Björk, Mazzy Star, and The Beatles. No particular order—each one gave me something to hold onto.
Hearing FKA twigs and Blood Orange for the first time was a game-changer for me. It was right around the era I was starting to explore the kind of production you hear on The More We Live—weird, textural, emotionally open. Then when I heard Blonde by Frank Ocean, it unlocked something deeper. That album gave me permission to fully lean into my own vulnerability and strangeness—no filter, no polish for the sake of comfort.
Bowie and Eno’s Outside album was also a major influence, not just musically, but conceptually. It pushed me to think beyond structure and genre—to move outside what was familiar or expected. The way Bowie used segues and characters really resonated, and I paired that with hip hop’s rich tradition of skits to create the six “Recall” interludes that help glue the album together thematically.
Most recently, watching Questlove’s documentary on Sly Stone was like a final confirmation. Sly was uncompromising. He carved his path in real time. That really lit the fire for me to release The More We Live—not to chase approval, but to stand on what I made. This is the most creatively free I’ve ever felt putting music into the world.
All the artists I mentioned were like buoys on a wide, wild sea. Some influenced the production directly—others sparked a melody, a lyric, or a mindset. But they were all part of the journey.
What’s the first song you wrote for this project, and how did it shape the rest of the album?
The first song I wrote for this project was “Heavy (The Blame Is),” and it really set the tone—sonically and emotionally. That track laid the blueprint for a few key elements that ended up becoming signatures across the album.
One of the big things was the use of the ARP 2600 sounds, especially drums. Once I tapped into that sound, it opened up a whole world—gritty, nostalgic, and a little futuristic. I ended up bringing that same texture into songs like “Let Your Hair Hang Down” and “Unravel” to keep that thread running through the project.
“Heavy” was also the beginning of my approach to vocal stacking—layering baritone or tenor takes with falsetto octaves. Almost every melody on The More We Live follows that format. It became a kind of sonic fingerprint, letting me explore different emotional ranges within a single phrase. That duality—weight and lightness, grounded and floating—really became central to the feel of the whole album.
So yeah, “Heavy” was the spark. It gave me a sound, a feeling, and a process to build everything else around.
Collaboration has been a big part of your history. How did going solo change your approach in the studio?
Collaboration has always been home for me. Not just in music, but in life—community, conversation, care. That spirit is central to how I move, and even though The More We Live is a solo project, it still couldn’t have happened without the contributions, support, and energy of others. Rolin Weary mixed most of the album, Dan Zorn mastered it, Nic The Graduate produced a few tracks, Doug Bistrow played bass on “When You’re Gone” and my partner listened to the songs a million times and gave me incredibly valuable feedback.
But being alone in the studio is a whole different kind of journey. There’s no one across the room to bounce an idea off or talk you through a moment of doubt. That forced me to listen inward more, to trust my instincts and let go of perfectionism. With a group, sometimes you chase the “right” version for the collective. But solo, I had to learn when to stop chasing—and start capturing the feeling.
I remember with Akasha, there was a track where I recorded like 90 vocal takes across several months. I was too in my head. With this album, I often kept it to two or three takes. If the emotion was there, that was enough. There was something liberating about that. I gave myself permission to be raw, imperfect, human.
So while the collaborative spirit will always be in my DNA, going solo gave me space to grow in a different way. It taught me to trust my voice—not just how it sounds, but what it has to say.
Which track challenged you the most, emotionally or technically?
That’s a tough one—different tracks stretched me in different ways. Emotionally, I’d say “Recall – Being Human” was the hardest. I had that production sitting around for years. The music was there, but I could never land the right vocal approach. I tried hooks, verses, traditional structures—but nothing felt right. Originally, it was called “Call of the Wild,” and I always had this gut feeling it needed to open the album. It just sounded like an introduction. But ironically, it was the last track I finished.
As the rest of the project started to come into focus, I realized that this piece didn’t need to follow convention. It didn’t need a hook. What it needed was vulnerability. More questions than answers. One night it hit me: make it an interrogative opening. Something abstract, reflective, unresolved. That’s how “Recall – Being Human” became what it is now—an emotional theme for the whole record.
On the technical side, “Waking Breath” probably pushed me the most. I had a clear vision for a choir-like sound, but pulling that off meant going deep into harmony and counterpoint. I recorded a ton of vocal layers to create that choral texture—each one slightly different in tone and delivery. I sat with that song for a while before diving in head first.
Both tracks, in their own way, demanded patience and surrender. But I’m proud of what they became.
The album feels cinematic in scope — if you could score a film or direct a visual project based on this record, what would it look like?
I definitely built The More We Live with a sense of arc—like a film in itself. The first half leans heavy: it explores fear, paradox, confusion—what it means to be human in a world unraveling. The second half starts to breathe, to hope, and ultimately to love. If I were to turn it into a visual project, it would follow that same evolution—starting in the dark and slowly moving toward the light.
Visually, the opening would feel dystopian. Think Book of Eli or Mad Max—dry, shadowed, cyberpunk textures. From “Recall – Being Human” through “Paranoia” and “When You’re Gone (Conversations With My Selves),” the world is broken, fractured, lost. “Waking Breath” offers a moment of stillness—a glimpse of collective care, a fragile breath of hope—before the story dips back into ideological rigidity with “Recall – The Apologists” and “Sin Tax.”
“Recall – Circle of Faults” and “Heavy (The Blame Is)” reflect society’s obsession with blame and judgment. These are the storm clouds before the shift. By the time we reach “It Is What It Is,” something changes. The world begins to question itself and grapple with impermanence. The weight of paradox softens rigid beliefs, and there’s room again for empathy.
The second half of the visual journey would transform—lush landscapes, rebirth, shared villages, gardens, renewal. “Recall – The Givers” and “The More We Live” bring forward a vision of collective care, a world that chooses love not as a fantasy, but as a practice. “Free 2 Birds” reminds us to love ourselves, even in the aftermath of destruction—cinematically, this could look like communities rebuilding their homes and spirits after collapse.
By “Recall – The Redeemed,” the message is clear: And though we walk through storms of war, still, we choose love. “Unravel” and “Fade Into You” return the focus to intimacy—to the need to be seen, to be loved, to be whole. At that point, I imagine a visual shift toward deeply personal, everyday life: city apartments, village huts, farmhouses—real people living and loving together.
Then we reach “Reluctant Healers” and “Let Your Hair Hang Down”—a call to personal restoration and healing as a step toward collective liberation. The finale, “We Are With Them,” is a triumphant rising—an emotional crescendo. I see a sea of people, healed and ready, moving together like the final scene of Les Misérables—where voices lift not in despair, but in unity, in hope.
It would be part sci-fi, part sacred ritual. An homage to humanity’s potential to transform.
In an age of short-form, streaming-focused singles, what motivated you to release a 19-track debut?
I know 19 tracks is a lot in today’s world. Everything’s geared toward short-form content, singles, bite-sized drops. But for me, this wasn’t just about releasing music—it was about honoring a shift that happened in my life.
When my father passed in January 2024, something cracked open inside me. A fire lit. The fear, the self-doubt, the second-guessing—I couldn’t carry that anymore. At first, I was planning to drop a quick 8–10 song project the next month, no hesitation. But after talking with my partner and really sitting with all the music I’d been holding onto—finished, unfinished, half-formed—I realized I had a body of work. I just needed to give myself the space to hear it clearly.
I went through over 100 pieces and slowly carved them down to the 19 you hear on The More We Live. I still kept a high bar—I didn’t include everything. But the size of the project felt necessary. These songs didn’t just speak individually—they spoke with each other. They carried themes, contradictions, healing, memory, grief, hope, and love.. That kind of story couldn’t live in a single one for me.
I needed the freedom a concept album allows. I needed to tell a fuller truth—one that spans genres, moods, and ideas. And I think listeners, even in a fast-paced world, are still hungry for something that takes its time. Something that lives with you.
This album is that offering.
How has your relationship with your own voice — both literal and figurative — changed through the making of this album?
Literally, I’ve learned to trust my voice more—to work with it instead of against it. I used to be overly critical, always chasing some perfect tone or delivery. But on this album, I became more of an ally to my voice. I explored my full range, layered baritone and falsetto, and let emotion guide the take more than technical perfection. In doing that, I found more freedom, more honesty.
Figuratively, this album helped me stand taller in what I have to say. These songs carry my questions, my contradictions, my truth—and I didn’t filter that out. I used to worry if it was too much or not polished enough. But now, I feel stronger in my voice, not because I have all the answers, but because I’m finally okay sharing the process—the becoming.
The More We Live gave me the courage to speak publicly from that place. And that’s a kind of liberation I’ve never felt before.
What advice would you give to other artists who are sitting on years of unreleased, deeply personal work?
Give yourself permission. That’s the first and most important thing. Let yourself share your work—even in the face of your own doubt, fear, or insecurity. I know how paralyzing that internal voice can be. It can keep you sitting on art that’s meant to move the world. But the truth is, expression is a human need. We’re built to create and connect. And that doesn’t always have to look like what the industry defines as art—it can be raw, imperfect, personal. It just has to be honest.
We live in a world that often suppresses and oppresses people’s voices and bodies. Releasing your work—your hurt, your joy, your questions, your complexity—is a form of resistance. It’s also a form of healing. Art gives us ways to connect without harm, to feel less alone, to experience something deeper than the doom scroll.So if you’re sitting on something, I say: the world needs it. Not the polished version you think people want—the real one. The vulnerable, personal, beautifully human one. That’s what connects us. That’s what reminds us we’re alive.
