Artist Spotlight: Bob Cole & Modern Music Studio

by Mikaela Brewer, ​for The 44 North

Senior Editor

A bright yellow Modern Music Studio logo with black letters

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“We see it time and time again in our studio. The kids who come to see us often have this perception that music is magic, that it can’t be understood. Learning about melody and harmony, chord progressions, and just how simple the construction of their favourite music is, a lot of the time, helps to break down that mysticism, making learning the language of music more accessible. ”

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Editor's Note: I had the absolute privilege of chatting all things learning music with Bob Cole, founder of Modern Music Studio—a community-focused group of musicians & teachers emphasizing student-directed lessons & learning as fun. Please enjoy our discussion!

Mikaela Brewer (MB): Modern Music Studio provides a space for everyone to “discover their musical passions on their own terms.” I love how this implies an inherent potential & possibility in a world that teaches us we can't approach music without ‘talent’. What does this mean to you? How have you seen this discovery happen at the studio?

Bob Cole (BC): This is a really important philosophy, or foundation of our studio. We truly believe that EVERYONE has music inside of them. Nothing irks me more than someone saying, “I wish I could play an instrument, but I just wasn’t born with it”. There is this myth that musicians are created at birth, and that truly isn't the case. We just have to find what music connects with you, and allow that music to flow through you. Anyone who loves music, anyone who loves to dance, anyone who loves to air drum or air guitar, anyone who lip syncs their favourite songs—truly, anyone can learn to play an instrument. 

We see it time and time again in our studio. The kids who come to see us often have this perception that music is magic, that it can’t be understood. Learning about melody and harmony, chord progressions, and just how simple the construction of their favourite music is, a lot of the time, helps to break down that mysticism, making learning the language of music more accessible. The adult students are a totally different case altogether. I’ve seen many adult students who wanted to learn an instrument but were unsure because they’d never done it before, or believed the “born with it” myth. Breaking down those barriers can be difficult; we all become a bit more stubborn in our older years. But for those who are willing to put in the work, stop believing the myth, and instead believe in the music inside of them, it can be tremendously rewarding (not just for them, but for us as well). We have students who came to us with no musical knowledge in their 50s and 60s and are now playing open mics or jams regularly around town. Watching students begin to believe in the music inside of them is perhaps our greatest source of joy. 

MB: On student leadership: because part of the magic is discovery, choosing an instrument, style, repertoire, and pace of learning offers creative control that's supportive for anyone, but perhaps especially for young people! Tell us more about what this looks like—what if a student doesn’t (yet) know what makes them special? 

BC: Such a great question. All of our instructors focus on positivity and building a love of music first and foremost. So the focus isn’t really on accomplishment (though that’s often a nice by-product), but on building a positive relationship with their creativity. It is a very vulnerable position that students put themselves in when they come to see us. We are asking them to share something that is a very personal connection: their personal taste in music. Initially, it can be difficult for them to share what it is about music they love. Our instructors are versatile and understanding in a way that makes kids feel comfortable and ready to share what music makes them feel special. We focus on positivity and listen to music through our students' lens to find their joy and help foster their connection to music in that moment. And it can often be in the least expected places! We have taught music from movies, video games, and even a radio jingle! Teaching songs that kids (and adults) recognize and connect with allows them to feel that connection and understand that what they love about music is distinct and unique to them alone. The benefits for self-esteem and confidence building with kids have been incredible to see. 

MB: On having fun: how have you seen the joy of growth/learning impacted—or maybe shifted from the way we think about learning at school—by empowering students to learn music they love?

BC: Fun is such an important part of learning in our view. By focusing on loving music first, we sort of create that carrot on the stick. The goal isn’t to learn ‘this’ scale so that you can play ‘this’ song. We teach it a bit backwards. We teach the song and then, once they’ve grown some confidence and connection to that piece, we start to show them maybe what scale it’s using, or what a score of that song looks like and how to read it, or perhaps how to transpose that song to another key so that it matches their voice. This resonates in a huge way with students. Not only can they learn their favourite songs, but they can start to understand the theory behind how these songs are constructed. By starting with fun, we sort of “trick” students into learning the nuts and bolts of music. So much of education is focused on learning a concept or a theory first, then it moves to how that theory is applied. Some educators came along and disrupted this idea (think Bill Nye or Mark Rober). They start with the application, then work backward to the theory. It’s a much more fun way to learn, in our opinion. The added benefit is that the student gets to choose the “application” (the song) that allows them to learn the theory, which makes them that much more engaged and connected to their learning. 

MB: On building community: we all know that tending connection is community care. Modern Music Studio has such a dedicated group of skilled, supportive teachers, but part of your goal is to connect students to their peers to learn songs together, form bands, and make friendships. The studio is located in a warm, cozy house in downtown Barrie, but what does community look like outside of sessions?

BC: We have so many students, for whatever reason, who seem to have difficulty fitting in with other walks of life, or difficulty with confidence in other areas. But when they walk through our doors, they get to feel like a rock star. And we’ve seen these kids’ confidence soar beyond our walls, to the performances we put on (Five Points Theatre, Aqua Theatre Orillia, and the Barrie Legion), and to the weekly jams we host. We’ve watched friendships grow and provided a sense of belonging for some kids who really needed it. As the years have gone on, we’ve watched kids graduate to university or college arts programs (one was even accepted to Harvard!). It's been super rewarding to help these kids find their footing and build their sense of belonging along the way. I think our approach—focusing on fun, encouraging a multi-instrumentalist approach, encouraging students to play music with their peers, to perform and to write and record songs—it’s given students a sense of belonging that maybe they didn’t have before they began lessons.

When I first had the idea for our studio, I wanted first and foremost for it to be a place where students who love music would find others like them and to bond over that love. I wanted to build a community of young musicians. The mutual passion for music we see in our students is incredible, and we love knowing that we’ve helped to create friendships and memories that will last a lifetime. 

MB: How can folks reading this spotlight support the musicians at Modern Music Studio—teachers & students alike?

BC: First and foremost, support the arts in our community in any way you can! The knock-on effects of that will benefit all of us who are trying to enrich our beautiful city through the creative arts. 

If you are interested in finding out more about music lessons with us, please go to modernmusicstudio.ca or email modernmusicbarrie@gmail.com to ask us any questions you might have. 

And finally, keep an eye out for all the amazing things our students and teachers are doing in our community, from working with at-risk or underprivileged youth (Glowing Hearts Charity, Orillia Youth Centre), to bi-annual performances at the Five Points Theatre and other venues around town, where you may find one of our students or teachers playing. We also have the amazing band Jupiter Hollow, who have members teaching with us, and then there is Sammy Johnston, who is an incredible blues/rock musician. Alondra Vega-Zaldivar is working as musical director this fall with the South Simcoe Theatre. And we have our choir starting up this spring that will be led by the incredibly talented Gillian Seaman. So look for their performances as well, and be sure to cheer super loud for our float at the Santa Claus parade in November! Follow us on Instagram and Facebook to keep track of all the cool things we are up to. And a vote for us in the Reader's Choice Awards in October would be really great too!

Short Story: Understanding the Consequences of Police in Schools

by Mikaela Brewer

A police officer in tactical gear walking through the front door of a building

The echinacea were still alive when the first bell of the school year rang. They’re also called coneflowers, and this is how my mother ensured we shared a name—that I carried her with me safely. Her name is Echina, mine is Connie. I didn’t understand, at first, why we didn’t have the same name. I both knew and didn’t in 2018, when the Toronto District School Board trustees voted to remove police officers stationed in their schools. But I see now, in September 2026, as I begin my senior year of high school. I was born in this country. My mother wasn’t. 

The last time we drove back from Mexico, during the summer of 2025, we’d talked about our fears surrounding the upcoming American and Canadian elections. Mid-topic, we passed a strip of coneflowers and mom, as always, adored an opportunity to talk about the flowers she so admired. She loved them so much that she gifted some to my high school, now rimmed in magenta, white, and yellow. 

“You know, echinacea are native to North America. They’re tough and sturdy and colourful. Resilient—surviving full sun, bad soil, and drought. They help the bees and butterflies, feed the birds, and boost our immunity. They even self-seed non-invasively. Do you know what I’m saying—”

“I know what you’re trying to say.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means you make them sound like a perfect flower. Maybe they are. But we’re not perfect. And flowers can be ripped from the soil by their roots, no matter how hearty they are. That’s what Trump’s going to do. And it can surely happen in Canada, too.” 

Mom’s bony, ringed fingers slid down the steering wheel to eight and four. She took a loud breath that slumped her shoulders. “You don’t know what I’m saying because you didn’t let me finish.”

I regret it now, but at that moment, I shook my head and put my headphones in. She was right—I didn’t know what she wanted to say.

And here I am, waiting in a long line of students entering the school. Doorways doubled by scanners, tripled by police officers, and quadrupled by cameras. I remember my mother’s words, but I don’t yet know how to enact them. I’m terrified.

When I was nine, police roamed my elementary school grounds. But more than the coldness of the cops, I remember Mandy. Mandy with freckles, dimples, warm brown skin slightly darker than mine, and polished copper eyes. One of the first English words I could spell was penny, because I’d met Mandy in kindergarten and been in love with him since. I fight to remember him this way: Mandy, who smelled of his grandfather’s tobacco pipe when he kissed my cheek inside a dead tree trunk during recess.

But he was a troublemaker, always making things when we were supposed to be quiet and listening. A delinquent. A thief. His every move was watched, surveilled, and reprimanded in the halls. Detention for backtalk became suspension, and soon, arrests. So many frightening phone calls with the Canada Border Services Agency. A model of the school-to-prison pipeline. And it all started, from what I can remember, when he borrowed Jenny Barton’s glue stick and scissors without asking her. “What are you going to do with those?” they’d asked, fearfully. I know it started before that. Start isn’t the right word. What was cut up and flimsy as construction paper, to begin with, was his trust in adults. And I wasn’t enough to glue something so hurt back together—at least not faster than it shredded. 

Mandy’s in prison now, so I hear. Just shy of nineteen. I haven’t spoken to him since he was fourteen and I was thirteen. He disappeared from my life. And out of manufactured fear, I let him. 

I know peers, parents, and teachers who protested police in schools. I have friends who stopped coming to school because their parents and guardians are afraid of being reported to immigration officials, even though mom said the Education Act guarantees them an education regardless of status. But Mandy needed support. Not the police.

About midway through the lineup to enter the school, this old heartbreak snapped into panic. As nonchalantly as I could manage, I slipped out of line behind a portable and again behind the echinacea bushes. How else could I protect my mom? I put my headphones in and played two poems by Celia Martínez with my arms hugging my knees. I couldn’t stop my tears and heaved the still-humid air silently. 

[A moment to pause with Connie & watch/listen to Celia’s brilliant poems, linked here & here].

I slowly calmed, listening to Celia’s words. As I fought to figure out what to do next, vehicle headlights lit up my hiding spot magenta. There was a catwalk to a subdivision next to me, but these lights were too bright and close to be coming from the road. I sank further into the bushes, so afraid that it was some form of authority figure looking for me. But nobody would’ve known I was missing yet. It was only 7:53 and classes didn’t start until 8:15. 

A loud engine growl startled me, but it was turning off. A kickstand scraped the fence, thick-heeled boots hit the pavement, and headlights clicked off. 

It took my eyes a moment to adjust, finding focus on a yellow floral dress hugged by a red leather jacket. My mom was crouching in front of me. She smelled like fruit. 

I smeared my glittery white eyeshadow across my face trying to wipe tears away. “How did you know I was here?” I murmured, nearly incoherently.

Echina smiled and almost laughed as she sat down cross-legged beside me, out of view. “Your brothers and sisters hid here too.”

“But how did you know I’d be here today?”

“Moms know a lot of things. I had a feeling.”

“So you know why I didn’t go in.”

“I do. And I understand.” She took my hands in hers.

I swallowed, clearing my throat. “I know what you meant last summer. About coneflowers. About us.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s not about perfection. It’s about believing in ourselves. In our love and hope and joy.”

“Yes, it is. And so much more.”

I nodded, but she could tell I was waiting for her to expand on the ‘much more.’”

“There’s a story that I used to tell your father before he died. I haven’t told it since, but you need it now.” She shifted to face me. “There was once an echinacea flower who—”

“Mom, do you have any stories not about echinacea?” My face cracked a wet smile. 

Echina smirked. “Yes, but they’re not as good. Don’t interrupt.” She paused to paint a fresh layer of red lipstick, put the tube in her bra, and clapped her hands together softly. “So, there was once an echinacea flower who thought she couldn’t support the roots of the flowers around her unless she was completely filled—brimming with nourishment (this tale is inspired by the wonderful work of Christabel Mintah-Galloway, RN, BSN). She thought that she couldn’t give unless she was full. Gradually, the flowers around her began to die. And then, so did she. What mistake do you think she made?”

“We’re never fully or perfectly nourished. So she never helped.”

“Precisely.” Mom squeezed my hands and kissed them. 

“But I don’t understand. I do help.”

“You do. You always help me. But I tell you this little tale to say: almost always, even when we feel most alone and hopeless, there’s something we can do—especially something we can give. And we must keep giving and gifting so that others can do the same for us. We can’t sever that connection. All relationships are tended most lovingly this way; it’s how we keep making in every sense of the word—change, progress, love, art, each other, and the list continues.”

“But I’m so afraid to walk into that school now, mom. With all the police and surveillance. Why is it always us who have to give. So many people only extract. Even my school friends.”

“I know. I know, my love.” Mom hugged me. As she stroked my hair, she asked, “Is there someone who gave to you, who you once shared roots with—made with, maybe—who you could give back to today?”

“Aside from you?”

“Mhm.” She smiled appreciatively. 

It only took a moment to figure out who she was trying to get me to remember. And it was with his memory that I eventually walked into the school for my last first day.

***

That afternoon, I sat inside what felt like a particle board booth for standardized test-taking. There was a grey landline phone on the wall beside me, its coil nearly reaching the floor. This room of the county jail smelled of sweat, cheap coffee, and old paper. I looked down, picking at my purple nail polish. I don’t know what prompted me to look up, but when I did, I didn’t startle. I didn’t know how long he’d been sitting across from me, watching from the other side of the glass, with those same eyes. 

I stared back, my brow creasing involuntarily to mirror his. It’d been long enough for both of us to notice change, but not long enough to not recognize each other. He was thin, but stronger, and with black facial hair that suited him. 

Mandy picked up the phone on his side but my hand went to the glass, as if my palm could push through it to reach his cheek. Keeping the phone to his ear, his head sunk, as if in shame. Afraid he’d leave I quickly picked up the phone. 

“Mandy. Don’t go.”

He looked up. His eyes were kind, but it almost looked uncomfortable for them to soften. As if softness was the only muscle he hadn’t trained since I last saw him, chiselled now in more ways than one. He started to speak but stopped and pressed chapped lips together. 

“It’s me. C—”

“Connie.”

I nodded, unsure why I thought he wouldn’t remember.

“Thought I’d never see you again.” His voice was like gravel. 

I smiled and nodded. 

“Why did you come?” There was a sternness now. 

I took a deep breath and looked down for a moment to gather myself. He thought I was patronizing him.

“If it takes that long to say I—”

“No, wait.” I snapped my head up. “My mom told me a story. And I wanted to tell you about it.” 

“You want to tell me a story?”

“It’s about us. About what we can make.”

“Us?” There was a slight momentum in Mandy’s voice that gripped my heart. The wit that once made much of what he said sound like a wink. I’d missed it so much. 

“Don’t you want to hear it?” 

“Well, what are we going to make?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then how are we going to make it?”

“Together.” 

He grinned, and I couldn’t help but beam back. 

We truly hadn’t said much of substance. I didn’t yet know why he was here, nor how we could make anything, let alone make anything happen or change in our corner of the world. He didn’t yet know what I’d been doing for five years. But a shared fight within the two of us found its reflection. 

Mandy kept smiling. It was a disarming, determined smile, with an undercurrent that I recognized. My cheeks warmed, realizing my hand was still on the glass. I was about to move it when he reached up and pressed his palm to mine. The sweat from our palms ran down the pane like tears.

Finding Love: When Your Loved Ones Vote Differently Than You

by Mikaela Brewer ​for The 44 North

A red “I Voted” sticker, stuck to a fingertip

At the peak of a cool, June golden hour, Henrie searched for her house keys in the pocket of her jeans. They jingled around her fingers on their sparkly purple coil, singing with the wind chimes hanging from the porch. The old wood steps creaked, as if the groan of its paint-skin peeling, and the stone cardinal riding the chimes jolted as Henrie bumped their head on them. She’d always thought this a strange design—cardinals always appeared in pairs.

Finally finding the right key, she unlocked the door and sniffed for expected tobacco smoke. They slipped off their hiking boots, and tiptoed toward the foyer stairs. 

“Henrietta? Honey, is that you?” A familiar, gravelly voice wound around the doorway of the living room.

Henrie breathed a soft sigh. “Yes, Grandpa, it’s me.” Henrie heard the T.V. volume decrease as her grandfather, Danny, shuffled out of his back and neck pillows. He stopped in the doorway, with a warm smile that reached Henrie like a ghost hug. They knew he was wondering why they hadn’t announced their entrance, as usual. But Danny was sweet, and respectful, which Henrie always appreciated. The grief of losing a mother wasn’t the same as losing a daughter, but the state of the old farmhouse consistently clarified that the ache was shared.

The quiet was a bit disarming. Danny must’ve fed the animals a bit early, Henrie thought. Why?

“Would you like anything special for dinner? I wish I could say the tomatoes were ready for pasta sauce, but not quite.” Danny’s eyes crinkled with playful frustration.

“Oh, that’s okay. I’m good with whatever you’re feeling, honestly. I’m a little tired to think.” The setting sun’s golden beams made the floating dust in the air between them visible. One beam shone directly on a black and white graduation photo of Ellen, Henrie’s mother, nearly coercing the colours of life out of its past as if they were behind the wall the photo was nailed to. 

“Well why don’t we cook something together? Maybe you can tell me about your Tuesday afternoon?”

Clever, Danny. This is what Henrie did not want to do, but they didn’t know what else to say. “Okay, sure.” 

“Perfect. Let’s do it.” Danny walked down the hall toward the kitchen, which was mostly windows overlooking Ellen’s garden. It was Henrie’s favourite room in what had been her mother’s childhood home. In the sun, everything caught fire, especially her and Danny’s deep amber hair, his now streaked with silver. At night, the dark orange walls looked almost black lit by a blue-white moon. The whole room smelled like basil, bread, and the ripening tomatoes climbing an open window. 

As Danny washed his hands, he offered a look of invitation and expectation. Not unkind. But one Henrie knew well: Why, at 23 and living at home, she hadn’t been “working” this afternoon. 

“Well, I voted, first,” she paused for a reaction but Danny just nodded as he poured green pasta curls into a corningware dish. “And then I went to an open meeting at the Seed Library. It was about queer ecology and ensuring community gardens and other natural spaces and parks are queer, trans, indigenous, and Black and Brown centred and inclusive leading into PRIDE, Juneteenth, and Indigenous Peoples Month. I wrote down pages of notes, and I’m hoping to volunteer a bit more, because, you know, learning about how to organize and activate a community is how we do more than just vote.” Henrie stopped here, aware of her swelling eagerness. 

Danny nodded again, but looked down as he rinsed rosemary residue from his hands. “I voted, too.” 

Henrie smiled with their lips pressed together. Danny mistook it for despair, and an opportunity.

“Don’t worry, love. Once we get a new government, they’re going to mend this cost of living crisis. You’ll be able to move out and live the life you’re hoping for—that I’m hoping for you.”

Henrie’s brows knit. She didn’t know how to respond to her unspoken question being answered. 

“Grandpa, how could you vote for them?”

“What?” He asked with genuine confusion, again not unkindly, but defensively. “I’ve always loved and supported you. And learned about the 2SLGBTQIA+ community. Did I say it right? I was just watching that series with RuPaul! And I finished Season 1 of that show last night! The Last of Us? Right? It’s very good. I really like it.”

Henrie’s heart seemed to stall between beats to take up more blood, but the delay hurt. 

“I know you love me, Grandpa. I do. I really do.” She meant it. “But that’s not what we’re talking about. I agree with you. We are in a violent cost of living crisis. But it certainly won’t be fixed or solved by any of our parties or leaders. We have to vote for harm reduction, and not just for ourselves or the people closest to us. Maybe it’s like Joel trying to save Ellie in The Last of Us—he was only considering her when he killed all those people to free her from the hospital. And it wasn’t for lack of love. It was almost like—” Henrie paused to think, “love out of context.”

“But I’d do what he did, Henrietta. I think I would. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know, and that’s what makes this so hard. Maybe Joel and Ellie are a poor example. But we do make judgement errors when we don’t consider folks outside of our immediate circle of conversation and influence. How much we love someone close to us should be fuel for learning to love others who aren’t.”

“Yes,” Danny tried to take a calming breath, “you’re right about that bit. But this government has messed up everything for your generation. We need change! How could you vote for them? Again?” 

Henrie glanced at the tomatoes growing up the kitchen window frame, green but reddening, reflecting off of Danny’s furrowed face.

“You’re right. We do! But change has to come from us. And when we vote—a bare minimum step—we have to think about who, in a position of power, is most likely to join that change when we make it. And react with fear, control, and surveillance least often.” 

“Henrietta, you’re young. You’re confused—”

“No, I’m not. Can’t you see we’re saying the same thing?” 

“You just voted for the same crap that’s been happening for ten years!”

“There has been a lot of trash. Yes. A lot of manipulation. But reviving a past—before the past ten years—isn’t change. Doing this won’t build or enact the new pillars we need to float our country’s dock.” 

From the living room, a breaking news anchor’s voice wafted in. The election results. 

Henrie and Danny made sharp eye contact before hustling into the living room. Both were silent as the election was declared, much earlier than anticipated. Henrie felt her socks sink further into the tiger-print carpet than usual, because it hadn’t been vacuumed. 

“Well. That’s just perfect. Good job.” Danny’s voice wavered as he walked out the back door to the garden, knelt in the dirt with both knees and elbows, and put his head in his hands.  

Henrie jogged upstairs, flopped onto their bed, and opened Andrea Gibson’s Substack. 

The first poem that popped up was a video of “What Love Is”. They hadn’t heard it before. Henrie wept as she listened to it, facing her mother’s handwriting—accidentally in plum-purple Sharpie—on the top right corner of her vanity mirror. 

“Where there is rage, remember its tenderness. Where there is tenderness, don’t forget its rage.”

[This is an invitation to pause reading & watch Andrea read us their breathtaking poem; we don’t have copyright permissions to reprint it!]

Face damp, Henrie stood to look at their face in the mirror. Her freckles seemed bolder, like wet versus dry rocks. In the mirror’s reflection, Henrie looked out her open window. A mist of rain sprayed lightly across the backs of her arms, bringing with it a few lilac petals from the bush that climbed the back of the house. Henrie didn’t wipe away her tears on the way to the printer downstairs, and then out to the garden. 

***

Danny was tenderly thumbing the tomatoes, both a fruit and a vegetable, as if two truths simultaneously. Henrie walked slowly toward him, remembering something from earlier that day, at the Seed Library: patience as the vital cornerstone of nature, and of course, gardening. When they flourish, not unlike a family, it’s not always due to their fertility and reproductivity, but to their depth, circularity, and broadness of influence. Our garden and our grief is what we have in common, Henrie thought. 

Henrie approached Danny, dropped to their knees, and placed a hand over his. “I don’t blame you.”

“I know. I don’t blame you either.”

She took a deep breath and handed her grandfather a paper with a poem printed on it. He took a few moments to read it, right there among the tomatoes and lilacs. Tears fell into the imprints where his hands had been pressed into the soil. He read one of the last lines out aloud:

““I’m 76 years old, he said, and I just tonight figured out what love is.””

“I know what love is at 23 because you’ve shown it to me—in ways like this poem. And that’s where we’ll try to understand and forgive each other, okay?”

Danny nodded. He smeared soil across his cheeks, like a football player or a warrior, as he tried to clear his tears. “Could I share something with you, too?” 

Henrie nodded, eagerly. 

“Victor Hugo said, once, that “Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when, whatever the attitude of the body, the soul is on its knees.” Our souls are both on their knees, Henrie, I know. Especially right now. But because they’re here, they see eye to eye. Let’s stay for a moment. Let’s talk from that place.”

Henrie closed their eyes and took their grandfather’s hands, nodding gently. Two cardinals landed on the lilac bush beside them. She tilted her head up to the warmth of the afternoon sun, the smell of petrichor, and colours of the garden making a mosaic against her eyelids. They thought—perhaps prayed—to always be moved by what love is.