On an unremarkably sunny Sunday afternoon in SoCal, two of my best friends drove me to and then abandoned me in the notorious Silver Lake neighbourhood of Los Angeles. At Cafecito Organico, the friendly barista with a Colorado accent served me a hibiscus tea to sip while I prepared to meet Mike Silver, better known as CFCF in the music world. This article filters through a nearly two-hour chat to present CFCF’s grounded and deeply introspective answers to some 7 key questions about music production, his interpretation of the music scenes in North America’s biggest arts cities, and his upbringing in Montreal.
Hannah Wan: Let’s start from the beginning. What genres were the first songs you produced, and what was the tech you used?
CFCF (Mike Silver): I started making music on computers when I was really young. Back then—around 2001 or 2002—it was Napster, LimeWire, and another service called AudioGalaxy. This was when I was around 11 or 12, listening to a lot of hip-hop and dance music—artists like DJ Shadow, Beastie Boys, and Daft Punk. I’d find rare samples those artists used and piece them together in software. At that time, I was using Sonic Foundry Acid. It was a DAW (digital audio workstation), but without plugins—you could only move audio around. The layout was similar to Ableton or Logic in that you could set start and end points, change tempos, and make loops. After that, I moved to Fruity Loops, where I started learning virtual synthesizers and instruments. My early work was mostly dance-influenced, trying to emulate Daft Punk or indie electronic acts.
Since I learned on a computer, I relied on quick, simple setups for a long time. Now, I have access to proper music tech. Having a real studio is amazing, but I still prefer to work at home and go to studios later in the process. Even when I made my first record, most of it was just me and a guitar recorded through MacBook speakers—very DIY. I like keeping a level of spontaneity, rather than building a huge studio and mastering every piece of gear.
I still love sampling, but I do it less now because of the legal complications and costs.
Hannah: Music is both solitary and social, and I imagine that starting out was more solitary, while only later the collaborations came in. How has your relationship with music evolved in terms of working alone versus with others?
CFCF: Back in the day, I made most of my music alone—on my laptop, with headphones, often on trains or in isolation. Now, even when I’m working on my own music, I bring it to friends for feedback. Before, I’d guard everything until it was finished. But after 10 or 15 years of working solo, you start to feel isolated. It’s been fun to treat my music as less “precious,” inviting others to contribute and improve it. That openness is exciting.
It sharpens your skills, but it also removes some of the ego. You become more analytical, making decisions that aren’t solely tied to your personal preferences. When you’re not the “boss,” you let go of control but gain insight into what makes music work.
Hannah: I imagine it’s harder at first—especially if you don’t know the person well or not well enough to fully respect their opinion. Feedback can feel… Difficult to hear.
CFCF: Oh, absolutely. There have been times—both back then and even now—where a studio session just doesn’t click. The ideas don’t flow, or both people are too closed off. But that’s a skill you develop over time. Maturity helps you listen more openly and let go of defensiveness.
I love working with close friends, but I’m also more comfortable now collaborating with new people. There’s a process: talk about music first—what we like, what we’re working on—find common ground. It requires both sides to drop their egos and meet in the middle. That takes time and practice, especially learning not to take feedback personally. Remember, it’s all about making the work better.
Hannah: Now, for my next question: is there anything special about the music scene in Montreal that you look out for or really miss when you’re away from the city?
CFCF: I think it’s very small in a good way. But Montreal is especially small because there’s big overlap between scenes. People work on five different projects, someone might make dance music while also being in a band. It’s even smaller because of the language divide too, being either an Anglo or Franco in Montreal… But even I know many Francos who prefer the more Anglo-coded scene and work in that world.
Overall, the Franco and Anglo division is very real. It’s fluid though—sometimes they overlap like two cresting waves finding middle ground. It’s nice seeing local Francophones adding texture to the scene rather than it just being transplants or Anglos. For a long time, the underground—especially in dance music or indie rock—was dominated by people from other provinces or countries. It’s good that Québécois people now have more control over elements of the local scene. And as an Anglo from Montreal, I think it’s bad form to complain. We’re in a Francophone province and city, and should respect that cultural element. Even while making our own little culture within it, we need to understand we’re a linguistic minority. Sure there can be infighting in any small city scene, but when the Anglo-Franco divide comes together, that’s great. I always had the most fun at events where different aspects of the city converged, with bigger parties like Moonshine or festivals like MUTEK bringing different factions together.
As for out-of-province people, there’s a particularly big overlap with transplants from Vancouver. There’s a pipeline from Vancouver to Montreal universities, especially in the arts. If you’re coming to Montreal to study art, it’s always been like that. The community forms around people who go to Concordia or McGill to study art, mixing with locals.
Having grown up there, I found it funny how all these people from Vancouver were kind of supplanting me as an Anglo in Montreal. Thinking back to around 2008-09 when I was in university, I wasn’t participating much in the scene then. I felt I didn’t have my own space in it because it was largely people from Vancouver, Calgary, Saskatchewan. They’d made their own bubble, and back then there were a couple key venues. It was hard to puncture it. Now I know many of those people and think they’re great, but at the time it was intimidating—“Where did these people come from? They’re doing their own art thing.” Because I was there all along, it felt like this thing just popped up. So being part of the local Montreal scene didn’t come naturally to me. The local Montreal scene was something I had to learn over time.
I also miss that there are real organizations in Montreal, in the sense of both being grassroots and receiving formal funding. It’s nice that there are institutional support systems for underground DIY things. These city-funded events allow DIY artists to get platforms and grow their careers. That’s why people move here to develop their careers (even if some later leave).
But to reiterate, what I miss most is the localness and smallness. You’d ask “What are you doing Friday? Going to this or that thing?” You’d meet in the park during the day and plans would evolve organically. There was nice overlap with other producers: you’d see them out and ask “What are you working on?” It has small town vibes, as it is a small town at heart.
Hannah: If I were to create a tour guide company called Relive CFCF’s Adulthood in Montreal, what do you think my itinerary should look like?
CFCF: I would definitely start at Green Room, which doesn’t exist anymore. There was also Blizzards, which is now called, what’s it called? (Hannah’s post-edit note: He is talking about Barbossa!). It was next to Blue Dog. But anyways, there was a bar, yeah, this bar called Blizzards in Montreal, where I would DJ a lot, too. And then another one called Korova Bar, but it’s gone also. So these are just some of the local spots that we would often be DJing.
When I moved into the city from Rosemère, I was living at my mom’s place in NDG, on Sherbrooke Street right before Westmount—near Vendôme Metro. I lived there for three or four years. I’d actually stayed there weekends even in high school, commuting from Rosemère. After graduating, I moved there full-time, then left around 18 or 19 for an apartment on Hutchison and Saint-Viateur in Mile End. That place was terrible—a decrepit, old building, dirt cheap. Probably $200 a month split with a roommate, so around $500 total. But at 18, it was my first taste of freedom: DJing at Green Room, then grabbing 4am bagels at Fairmount or St-Viateur.
Hannah: If I expanded this company into LA as Live a Day in the Current Life of CFCF, what would that itinerary look like?
CFCF: I live in this neighbourhood in the Village, near Virgil Street—that’s where I go for coffee or walks. There’s a restaurant just a block from my house called Sqirl that caused some controversy a few years ago over moldy jam. I still go there though. The controversy became kind of a meme, and honestly, the food is really good once you get past all that.
It’s funny how I keep ending up at these places that have become stereotypical memes, like Echo Park and Silver Lake. Like El Prado, this wine bar on Sunset Boulevard that shows up in all those “Silver Lake starter pack” memes. But I have to admit, they serve the best hot dogs in LA. There’s also this old French restaurant on Sunset called Tex. When I first started coming to LA about 10 years ago, they had these Social Club Wednesdays that were basically just an excuse to hang out. I also see a lot of movies at the Americana in Glendale, this Rick Caruso-owned outdoor mall designed to look like Europe. It’s kind of profane when you think about it, all these luxury clothing stores next to a Cheesecake Factory and Urban Outfitters, pure capitalism. But moving from Canada to America, you sort of have to embrace that weird commercial excess, even if semi-ironically at first. It grows on you in this gross-but-sincere way.
Oh, and there’s this great Vietnamese sandwich place around the corner called Be U.
Hannah: As someone who broke into the LA music scene and has the Montreal music scene as a reference point, what are some stereotypes and cultural peculiarities that you think apply much more to music producers and artists here than anywhere else?
CFCF: I know some people who do drugs a lot, but they don’t do the drugs when they’re working on music or whatever. But I also know plenty of people who are basically straight-edge almost, or who only smoke weed. I couldn’t really put a pin on any one particular type of person. I know a handful of people who are a little younger—they love dropping Playboi Carti in their DJ sets and stuff like that, and they’re a little bit more hyperactive, both in their music taste and demeanor, than people my age who are a little bit more cerebral and a little bit more just kind of “head-noddy.” But still, I would hesitate to even put a stereotype on any of that stuff.
I don’t know. The stereotype is just that we’re all DJs. And that’s really all it is—that everyone’s a DJ or a graphic designer or a creative director.
Hannah: Haha, “creatives.” “Project managers.”
CFCF: Exactly. But, the one thing in LA is that there’s just more money going around, and there’s more flashiness. But also, so many of my friends are dirt broke. Still, you’re more likely to see people flaunting their money in LA, and you might end up at people’s big mansions or houses or people drive nice cars and stuff. That’s a big difference versus here in Montreal, where I think it’s almost frowned upon to flaunt your wealth. Here, it’s like, even if you’re broke, you should be showing off what you got. There’s no sense of being poor as an aesthetic. Even if you’re broke, you’d be flaunting your chain or your car or whatever, just to show that you have something. But in Montreal, I think people flaunt their poorness.
Since moving here, I’ve gotten much more used to seeing how much things revolve around the display of wealth. That was a big shift, in having to realize that you don’t gain respect out of being DIY or visibly doing things in a cheaper way. You do gain respect out of being kind of superficial, through these superficial displays of wealth. Obviously, I don’t do that, and I can’t—I wouldn’t know how exactly to do that. I’m not flashy enough to really participate in that world. But it does influence your thinking.
I think it’s just America versus Canada also. That’s just a general difference—Canada just has a much more down-to-earth vibe. In America, it’s definitely about displays of wealth.
Hannah: It ties into the rampant individualism in the US. Here, you want to show off how special, unique you are… And what else can more flagrantly show off your individualism than the kinds of coveted material possessions you have? Flexing wealth is inherent to this kind of individualism-driven materialism.
CFCF: Exactly. All these things. So, it’s funny how it bleeds into creative worlds and creative pursuits. Sometimes that just means the music is flashier, or people are more likely to, kind of, quote-unquote, not sell out, but rather do things in a way that has a bit more of a commercial slant. Which I think is okay in many ways.
I think the only thing is just that things get watered down fairly quickly. Local scenes from international places—things like, let’s say, Brazilian funk music—become this thing that gets incorporated into pop music very quickly. So then you find it in a song, and suddenly it’s been watered down and cleaned up for mainstream consumption. So, that’s kind of a byproduct of the capitalist mindset just swallowing everything up, even the stuff that is really grassroots and organic.
Hannah: Everything goes through a TikTok filter… Please never let yourself be lost in that sauce.
CFCF: I wouldn’t even know how, honestly.
Hannah: Where would you probably be right now if you never made music? Like, I go back in time and take away your family computer.
CFCF: When I was younger, I wanted to be an illustrator, somewhere between a fine artist and a comic artist. I was really influenced by an artist named Raymond Pettibon. He’s a very well-known artist because he did a lot of artwork for punk bands in the ’80s and ’90s.
I was also really into independent comics—Daniel Clowes, Charles Burns, R. Crumb, Julie Doucet, stuff like that. Montreal has Drawn & Quarterly, a bookstore and publishing house, and they published a lot of great comics. I tried to study that for a bit but dropped out because I didn’t like the program at Concordia. The fine arts program there was more about honing your artist statement and vision, and I just wasn’t mature enough to understand what they were trying to get out of me. I wanted to improve my technique, which they didn’t really focus on. I was doing a lot of illustrative work rather than painting: ink and paper, black ink on white paper, pen or pencil, India ink, comic book ink, Sharpie, stuff like that. So that’s one avenue I could have gone down.
My brother is a writer and comedian for film and TV, and I always looked up to that, wanted to follow in his footsteps. We talked about collaborating when I was younger, but I always felt more confident in music. Even if I had never started making music, I’d still be consuming it constantly—putting together playlists in interesting ways, trying to tell a story through sequencing. The way I engaged with it evolved from making mixtapes at home to blending sounds into original compositions—first on a boombox, then on the computer, then incorporating samples and my own music. So even if I’d never picked up a guitar, keyboard, or computer, I’d still be doing that in some form. I don’t think I’d ever have gone down the path of a “normal” career. Unfortunately for my financial well-being.
Hannah: In short, I could take you out of music but never the music out of you.
Alright, let’s talk about parasocial relationships. A big part of becoming an artist and making it big enough to move somewhere like LA is that you start getting known. When you think about strangers listening to your music, what do you imagine? Do you picture them alone, scrolling on Reddit, or at a party dancing?
CFCF: I tend not to think about them at all, to be honest. When I do, it’s abstract—usually based on what people tell me. Sometimes at shows, or even at a bar, someone might come up to me. “Rockognized,” as we joke.
If I had to visualize it, I’d say people in front of their computers. That’s how I got into music—hunched over a laptop in the dark, on blogs, listening to mixtapes, compiling playlists. I assume it’s that same message board, Reddit, Discord energy—people obsessed with music discovery, falling into wormholes. I think that’s what they like about my music: it references the act of discovering music online. Microgenres like vaporwave and hyperpop are meta in that way—they are the discovery and reference it. It’s romanticized, influenced by cyberpunk lit and films, but people project their own nostalgia onto it. So I picture someone alone in their bedroom, on headphones, diving into weird music.
A lot of people go online to construct an identity or sense of belonging—through Pinterest, Are.na, Tumblr, YouTube. It’s like covering your bedroom wall with magazine cutouts, but digital. You build a world from niche art that speaks to you, whether because it feels uniquely yours or resonates deeply. Do that 20 times, and you’ve crafted a personal identity. If it’s sincere—not just replicating trends—it’s healthy.
Hannah: Knowing people do that with your music, what does that feel like?
CFCF: The deepest flattery. I don’t think about it while creating—that’d be unhealthy—but it’s encouraging when releasing music. It means you’re not shouting into a void; you’re part of an ecosystem where people receive it, validate it, and find their own meaning.
There was a time before social media and internet where people’s main way of connecting with the outside world was through art. Without social media or ways to communicate about music directly, you’d still connect with the world through those mediums. So being able to create something that helps people discover new worlds is amazing. It feels really nice when people tell me they not only like my music but discovered other things through it—whether influences, references, or sampled films. That’s always cool.
The benefit of the internet and social media is the insane amount of discussion happening daily—not necessarily about my music, but music in general. People form communities around it on Twitter, Discord, Reddit, Rate Your Music, whatever. Ideally, people engage with music in the real world too, but not everyone can.
Hannah: This ties back to what we said earlier about music being both solitary and social. Someone can be alone in their room, lights off, listening to your music, but they are still engaging in a social process: there’s a message you are trying to put out, and if someone receives it, there is this deep interpersonal connection.
CFCF: Exactly. Music is not antisocial. Connecting both to other people and the world through music is healthy. And really, art itself is a form of social media. You’re linking yourself to the outside world through art. And connecting with art, that should be the goal.
Check out the bonus content from this interview HERE about DJing today.
