Louder Than Survival

I found Lupe Dragon the way you find a lot of things now…by accident.

A reel came across my feed, a clip from her song Cruise Control: moody, melodic, electric with tension. The hook hit and suddenly I was blasted back to middle school. Thrown straight into the memory of the first time I ever felt something for a girl.

I was repressed, questioning, confused and entirely locked in the closet.

It was hard at such a young age to feel so unusual and even more so when around a certain person.

It wasn’t just music I heard that day, it was a mirror.

The queerness wasn’t overt, but it was there — pulsing underneath, raw and real and undeniably felt. That’s the thing about Lupe. She doesn’t write songs that play by genre rules or make big declarations. She writes songs that make your chest ache in the way only truth can.

And then I learned she was queer, too. Loud about it. Honest about it. Tender about it. And suddenly the music hit even harder like it had been waiting for me to show up.

That’s where the story starts.

In a bedroom, inside earbuds, with a song that knew me before I even pressed play.

Lupe could also say the same.

Surviving the Noise: Music as Lifeline in North Jersey

Lupe Dragon didn’t just grow up with music, she grew up inside it.

Back in high school, she was that kid with the earbuds in all day long.

I always had my earbuds in my ears cranked as loud as they could go, even in class haha.

And no one really stopped her. Probably because she was a good student. Probably because the teachers sensed what was going on beneath the surface — the anxiety, the not-fitting-in, the quiet spiral happening behind the straight-A exterior.

I suffered from terrible anxiety attributed to my anxiety disorder, I was bullied and teased a lot and I never really felt like I fit in.

Music became the only thing loud enough to drown all that out.

At first, it was about survival, blasting something to stay above water. But over time, something shifted. Music didn’t just block out the pain, it started talking back.

And no one cracked her open quite like Jack’s Mannequin.

The Mixed Tape by Jack’s Mannequin got me into their first 2 albums HEAVY… Listening to them feels familiar and safe.

That safe feeling became her anchor — a comfort band for the moments when nothing else made sense, and from there, the doors flung open.

Avril Lavigne. Paramore. Linkin Park. All icons of unapologetic feeling. All loud in their own way, not for attention, but for survival.

They have that angst. They have that rage that they need to scream about… Linkin Park in particular, a lot of their songs come from a place of trauma/depression and it is unfortunately so relatable to all of us.

These artists weren’t pretending everything was okay, they were raging against the exact kind of silence Lupe was trying to break through.

Eventually, the headphones weren’t enough. She needed to respond.

She started writing songs. At first, it was about making hits.

But somewhere along the way, the goals changed. The pressure faded. The purpose got louder.

Since that obviously didn’t happen (LOL) and probably never will, my mind has shifted to…I need to give back, I need to be real.

Songs that leave space for other people to breathe. Especially the ones like her — queer, anxious, and trying to find their place.

I want queer people to listen to my music. I want lonely souls to listen to my music.

That’s where Lupe Dragon began: not on a stage, not in a studio, but in the middle of a classroom, headphones blasting, trying to stay alive.

Real Talk & Raw Songs: Writing Through Anxiety and Queerness

Lupe doesn’t write every day. She writes when it matters.

I need to experience life thru myself or others and then sit with it, marinade in it to get to that place to write about it.

Her process isn’t about forcing productivity — it’s about letting the feeling get loud enough to demand attention. And when it does, she listens. Whether it’s hers or someone else’s, the emotion has to be lived before it’s written.

Take Swaylinks. A slow-burning track about feeling unlovable — she wrote it like no one would ever hear it.

I remember writing it like it was never going to be heard. I think the more I do that, the less pressure I feel.

That shift — writing for herself, not the algorithm — is what gives her songs their rawness. They’re not manufactured. They’re what happens when someone puts pain through a distortion pedal and lets it ring out.

Mental health isn’t a theme in her music. It’s a presence. It’s always there even when it’s unsaid. Same with queerness — baked into the perspective, not just the pronouns.

I mean, I am who I am, and people either see that or they don’t.

Lupe doesn’t need to wave a flag in every verse. Her very existence — a queer, anxious, genre-bending artist — is the message.

But if there’s one thread tying it all together, it’s unworthiness. The kind we have all experienced at one point or another when we’re young and afraid and not seen clearly — and stays way past its welcome.

I think I can still write about unworthiness now because I’ve known that feeling longer than I’ve known worthiness.

That’s why boundaries became vital. In life, in love, in the studio. She’s learned to protect herself — not just from bad relationships, but from the part of her that still feels like she has to earn safety.

Now, songwriting is less about proving something — and more about processing something. Letting it move through her and transform.

And maybe, by telling the truth, she can help someone else feel like they’re allowed to feel too.

Genre, Grit & Gut Feelings: The Lupe Dragon Sound

Lupe didn’t walk into the scene fully formed. She shaped her sound the way most people shape themselves — through trial, error, and a lot of cringing later.

At first, she copied her friends. Dabbled in rap. Dipped into R&B. The songs weren’t bad — in fact, some were great — but they didn’t feel like her.

In the beginning I was copying my friends… those songs were good but not totally me.

Eventually, something clicked. Or cracked. Or maybe just refused to be quiet anymore.

She leaned into rock because it felt like home. A genre that lets you be everything at once: angry, soft, healing, unhealed.

Rock is my angle for sure.

That’s the Lupe Dragon signature: duality on full blast. Grit wrapped in melody. Fragility disguised as power. A push-pull tension that’s not just present — it’s the point.

Very intentional.

There’s always a balance in her music. The lyrics ache, but the drums don’t flinch. The vocals tremble, but the guitar growls. It’s vulnerability that bites back.

And the way it comes together? It changes.

Sometimes a lyric shows up first — a phrase that refuses to leave her alone. Sometimes it’s a riff. A beat. A gut feeling. There’s no formula. Only instinct.

All of it. It depends on the day.

But no matter where the song starts, it always ends in the same place: truth.

Lupe Dragon isn’t trying to fit into anyone’s version of genre. She’s too busy building her own.

Connection Is Everything: Fans, Queer Community & Live Shows

For Lupe Dragon, music isn’t just something you make.

It’s something you meet people through.

From the beginning, she’s been held, not just by her chosen family, but by a whole scene that saw her clearly and welcomed her without hesitation. In an industry where queer artists often have to fight for a seat at the table, Lupe didn’t walk in alone.

My queer community is just as welcoming as a lot of the hetero musicians I’ve met…I haven’t been judged, I’ve been embraced.

That embrace shows up in the little things. The way people treat her at shows. The way listeners reach out. The DMs. The nods across the crowd. But it also shows up in the moments that knock you flat.

Like the time she played Braveathon — a livestreamed college event — and one of the crew members quietly came up after her set. She’d been going through a divorce, dealing with heartbreak and personal chaos.

When she heard Swaylinks, something cracked open.

They talked. They hugged. They saw each other. No masks. No posing. Just two people meeting through a song.

Lupe remembers it vividly because it doesn’t happen every day — that moment where your words, your voice, your pain becomes someone else’s mirror.

It really hit me. It’s one of the few times someone actually came up to me and said something like that to me.

That’s what keeps her writing.

That’s why her music pulses with queerness, even when it’s not explicit. It’s in the ache. The longing. The feeling of not being seen, until suddenly you are.

There’s always a place for you where the music is.

For Lupe, that’s not just a tagline.

And every time she steps on stage, she’s not performing at you. She’s performing with you. For the weirdos. For the over-feelers. For the queer kids with too many thoughts and nowhere to put them.

Until now.

What’s Coming Next

Lupe Dragon didn’t start out trying to save lives.

In the beginning I just wanted to make a pop hit and be famous.

But that dream shifted. Not because it was impossible, but because it felt hollow. Fame stopped being the point. The goal got bigger.

Now, it’s not about making something viral. It’s about making something that stays.

Music you can live inside and gives you something back. Especially if you’re queer, healing, or if you’ve ever felt like your softness was too much for the world.

Her mission now is to build a discography that holds space for all of that. The messy, the melodic, the stuff you write when you think no one’s listening, because those are the songs that hit the hardest.