Bonus Chapter
He doesn't do interviews.
That's the first thing everyone tells you about Nate Sullivan. The second thing they tell you is that he's a genius—the kind of producer who can take a band from open mic obscurity to stadium tours, who hears things in music the rest of us don't even know we're missing.
At twenty-nine, Sullivan has already worked with some of the biggest names in the industry.
His production credits read like a greatest hits compilation of the last decade.
But despite his influence, he's remained almost pathologically private.
No red carpets. No award show appearances.
No carefully curated Instagram presence documenting his creative process.
Just the music.
And now, miraculously, an interview.
We meet at Meridian Studios in Eden, a small lakeside town that Sullivan has never left despite numerous offers to relocate to LA or New York.
The studio is tucked away on the quieter side of town, unassuming from the outside—just another barn like building that could house anything from horses to hay.
Inside is different.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the lake. Vintage recording equipment sits alongside cutting-edge technology. Gold records line one wall, but they're not displayed ostentatiously—they're just there, part of the landscape, like photographs in someone's living room.
Sullivan himself is not what I expect.
Jeans. T-shirt. Black boots. Dark hair that looks like he ran his hands through it too many times while working. Eyes that are simultaneously guarded and kind—the eyes of someone who's seen things but came out the other side still believing in something.
He makes coffee. We sit on a worn leather couch that's clearly seen years of late-night sessions. And when I ask him why he finally agreed to this interview, he's quiet for a long moment.
"Because someone I trust told me it was time to stop hiding," he says eventually. "That the stories we keep private don't protect us the way we think they do."
RH: You've built an incredible career, but you've stayed remarkably private. Why?
NS: I think I learned early that attention doesn't necessarily mean connection. You can be the center of attention and still be invisible to the people who matter. So I just chose to put the work first. Let the music speak instead of trying to explain it.
RH: But music is inherently personal. Every song you produce, every artist you work with—there's you in there somewhere.
NS: [Laughs] Yeah. I guess you can't really hide when you're making art. It all comes from somewhere.
RH: So where does it come from for you? What drives your creative process? An idea? A muse?
[Long pause. He looks out the window pondering the question. When he speaks again, his voice is different—softer, more careful.]
NS: I don't think we choose our muse. Much like we don’t choose our soulmates. I think souls recognize each other across lifetimes, and if you're lucky enough to meet yours, everything you create after that is just proof they existed. They become a muse without even trying to be one.
RH: You're talking about someone specific.
NS: Yeah.
RH: Who?
[Another pause. Longer this time. He's deciding something—I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way his fingers drum once against his knee before going still.]
NS: Someone I grew up with. Someone who's been the constant in every chord progression, every lyric I've ever written, whether I meant them to be or not.
RH: A constant. Can you elaborate on that?
NS: [He considers this, choosing his words with the same care he probably applies to a mix] Some people exist like constants—like the way certain light only happens at certain times of day, or how some songs only make sense when you're driving with the windows down at 2A.M. She was like that.
A frequency I couldn't tune out even if I wanted to.
RH: That's beautiful. And painful.
NS: [Smiles sadly] Both. Always both.
RH: Does she know? That you've been writing about her?
NS: I think on some level. Even when they're pretending they don't.
RH: Soulmates. That's a big word.
NS: Do you have another word for it? The way I see it, some people aren't just part of your story—they're woven into the fabric of who you are.
Every decision you make, every path you take, they're there in it somehow.
Distance doesn't matter when two people are connected like that.
You can be separated by years or miles or choices, but the thread between you never really breaks. It just pulls tighter.
RH: Can you tell us who she is?
[He shakes his head, but he's still smiling—that same sad, tender expression.]
NS: She's the reason I understand what people mean when they talk about home.
RH: Just that?
NS: Just that.
RH: Even if she doesn't know these songs are about her?
NS: Especially then. Because it means the love is real whether or not it's acknowledged. Whether or not it's returned. It exists on its own terms.
RH: That’s incredibly profound for someone so young.
NS: Maybe.
RH: Do you think you'll see her again?
[He doesn't hesitate this time.]
NS: I don’t know.
It's the first and only time Sullivan also mentions his past struggles with addiction. The statement hangs in the air between us—raw and honest and entirely unguarded.
Seven years sober, he tells me when I ask. Seven years of rebuilding himself from the ground up. Seven years of therapy and meetings and learning how to exist in his own skin without needing to escape it.
Seven years of waiting.
RH: The Row's upcoming album—you've been producing it. What can you tell us about it?
NS: [Visibly relieved by the change of subject] It's their best work. These kids are twenty-one, twenty-two, and they're writing like they've lived three lifetimes already. My job is just to make sure the production serves the songs, not the other way around.
RH: You have a reputation for finding raw talent and polishing it without losing what made it special in the first place.
NS: Because I remember what it's like to be that kid who has something to say but doesn't know how to say it yet. Who feels too much and doesn't trust that anyone will understand. I just try to create space for that. Make them feel safe enough to be honest.
RH: Is that what happened with you? Someone created that space?
[Another pause. He's choosing his words carefully.]
NS: Yeah she did.
RH: Even when you didn't believe it yourself?
NS: Especially then.
We talk for another hour about music, about Eden, about the artists he's worked with and the projects he's excited about. But the conversation keeps circling back to the unnamed woman who's clearly the center of his creative universe.
When I ask him what he'd say to her if she was listening, he goes quiet again. Stares out at the lake like he's looking for the answer in the water.
"I'd tell her that I'm still here," he says finally. "That I've been building a life I hope she'd want to be part of. That every song I write is just another version of the same question: Will you come home?"
RH: And if she doesn't?
NS: Then I keep writing. Keep hoping. Keep building. Because some loves don't need permission to exist. They just do. And I'd rather spend my life loving her quietly than spend it with someone else loudly.
RH: That's incredibly romantic. And incredibly sad.
NS: [Smiles] Yeah. But the best songs usually are.
As I'm leaving, Sullivan walks me out to my car. The late afternoon sun is turning everything golden, and the lake is so still it looks like glass.
"Can I ask you something off the record?" I say.
He nods.
"Do you believe you'll see her again? The girl you were talking about?”
He's quiet for a moment, hands in his pockets, looking at something I can't see.
"I have to," he says simply. "Because if I stop believing that, I don't know who I am anymore. She's not just my muse. She's the reason all of this exists."
I drive away from Eden with that sentence ringing in my ears. She's the reason.
Somewhere out there is a woman who may or may not know that one of the most talented producers in the industry has been writing her name into every song he touches.
I hope she reads this.
Because if someone looked at me the way Nate Sullivan's eyes lit up when he talked about his unnamed muse, I'd run, not walk, back to wherever he was.
Some stories deserve their ending.
This one is still being written.
Nate Sullivan's latest production work with The Row drops next month. Their self titled album is available for pre-order now.
SIDEBAR: THE MERIDIAN LEGACY
Since opening a decade ago, Meridian Records has launched the careers of over a dozen artists, from indie folk sensation Luiza to the rock revival happening with The Row.
But Sullivan's approach is different from most producers—he doesn't just polish talent, he mentors it.
Artists who work with him describe the experience as transformative, like having someone believe in you before you believe in yourself.
"Nate sees what you could be," says Julian Thatcher, otherwise known by his stage name ‘Thatch’. He’s the lead singer of The Row. "And then he helps you become it. No ego. No agenda. Just pure belief in the music."
It's that belief—in music, in people, in second chances—that makes Meridian more than just a studio. It's a testament to what happens when someone takes their pain and turns it into purpose.
And maybe, if Sullivan's right about inevitability, it's a love letter disguised as a business.
We'll be watching to see if she answers.