First I let the chaos flow, just like a wild riff off the air, then I chase that rush with a single beat that keeps me grounded. I’ll line up a thud, a snare hit, a bass thrum—something that feels like a heartbeat—and I ride it. The rhythm is the anchor; the raw energy is the wave that crashes on top. Once I’ve found that pulse, I jam, shape the guitar, write the hook, and the storm settles into a track that still screams but has a groove you can feel in your bones. That’s how I keep the power focused while the song stays alive.

You’re right, the beat’s the spine, so I lock it down first, then let the riffs bleed from there. I keep a tight rhythm in my head, like a metronome that’s also a pulse in my chest. Once that groove’s locked, the guitars and vocals can climb, but they’re still dancing to the same drum. That’s how the storm doesn’t just crash—it carries people to the next chord.