You have the songs, in a voice memo folder or half remembered from the walk home, while your laptop sits with unused potential. The Art Of Self Produced Music shows you how to find your own sound first and then learn only the recording tools that serve it, so you can press record and finish the track.
"He made me not feel stupid for trying."
"He'll literally see you through those first barriers that can be uncomfortable all the way to a self produced track."
"He really knows and believes in people and what they can share before they even know themselves sometimes."
The mic has been in its box for six months. You bought it on a good day, the day this was finally happening. Now every time you notice it there's a small drop in your chest, and you've trained yourself to walk past it.
Maybe it's the recording software you opened twice and closed both times. Maybe it's forty half-ideas on your phone that nobody has heard. The details change from person to person. The shape doesn't. You have music, and it isn't getting out.
You know the voice that keeps it in. "I need to understand the software first." "I need a better mic." "I'm not really a tech person." "It won't be good enough to bother." And the quiet one underneath: "Who am I to call myself a producer?"
If this sounds familiar, you're not alone, and you're not broken. A gap in what you know isn't what's stopping you. Two things are running at once. One is a wait: a background belief that someone with more gear and more credentials has to say you're allowed. The other is a test: the question that shows up the second your finger nears the record button, asking whether this is good enough to count.
The common belief is that you're stuck because you don't know enough yet. Learn the DAW properly, understand compression, get the signal chain right, and then you'll be ready.
It sounds sensible. Recording software looks complicated, and the internet is full of people with fifty plugins across forty channels. Assuming there's a mountain of knowledge between you and a finished song is natural.
Look at what the "not ready" label does, though. It has no end date. Every tutorial you watch raises the bar for what counts as ready, so you get more knowledgeable and more stuck at the same time. Patch has met people with a DAW on their laptop for three years, a mic bought in good faith, songs they love, and not one recording.
The technical basics are close to a Saturday's work: pressing record, setting a level, layering a second part, a bit of EQ and compression, listening back.
What stretches that Saturday into years is trying to fix a confidence problem with information.
Every musician who hasn't recorded is standing in what the book calls a graveyard of almost-starts. The interface still sealed. The tutorials watched at one and a half speed. The invoice from a producer for a song that never came out.
Each one was a genuine attempt, and each one lets you avoid the one moment that scares you. Buying gear is the only step you can finish with zero risk of hearing yourself back. A tutorial doesn't know your song or your room. A producer makes the calls about your own track while you stand behind their chair. The studio clock rushes you. The general course opens with signal flow before anyone asks what you want to sound like.
Not one of them puts you in front of the record light with someone who believes the music is real before there's proof. So the song stays where it's always been: in your head, perfect, because it's never had to survive a microphone.
Two months into a bikepacking trip through Tasmania, I leaned my bike against a tree, tied a microphone to the frame, ran the cable into my laptop and hit record. Two musicians I'd met around a fire the night before played live in that field. When I mixed it, a friend couldn't tell it had been recorded outdoors.
It took me years to get to that point. From sixteen to twenty I drummed in a rock band every weekend while quietly recording my own solo music at home and telling nobody it mattered. As long as those songs stayed on my hard drive, they could still be great. The moment I let them out, people could shrug at them.
Later I chased credits and professional rooms, believing production was a profession you had to earn before your own recordings counted. The music I made in that stretch was technically fine and personally flat.
What turned it around was a bedroom in Australia. I recorded a full album there on a £40 acoustic guitar and a borrowed mic, with dogs clawing at the door through some of my favourite takes. I kept those takes. Late one night I played one back and thought: this is the actual thing. That was when I understood self-production wasn't a compromise on the way to something better. It was where I'd been trying to get all along.
I wrote this book because I sat in that friction for years, then watched musician after musician describe the same place in almost the same words.
When you know what you're reaching for, most of the software switches off, and the few tools you need become obvious.
Picture two people opening the same DAW for the first time. One knows the feeling they're chasing: close vocal, dry room, drums that stay quiet until they don't. Every choice, brighter or darker, near or far, has something to measure against. The other person faces a hundred equally plausible options with no reason to pick one. More tutorials give that second person more ways to feel lost.
That's why this book starts with your taste and your intention, not with EQ. Patch compares it to spending years learning to fly a private jet when all you wanted was to drive to the shops.
The Rainbow Root Method puts identity first and tools second. You work out your Sonic Palette before you touch any software: the roots, meaning the musical foundations you keep returning to, and the rainbow, the fingerprint that makes your version of them yours. Then you learn only the tools that serve that sound.
It works from the root cause. The freeze comes from waiting for permission and treating recording as an exam, so the method deals with those first and treats recording as play. Once that shift happens, the technical part turns out to be learnable.
The Rainbow Root Method, from your first idea to a shared song.
"He made me not feel stupid for trying."
"He'll literally see you through producing through those first barriers that can be uncomfortable."
"He really knows and believes in people and what they can share before they even know themselves sometimes."
Lana produced her own songs, working most of it out as she went, with a few nudges from Patch when she got stuck. She built 1,000 real monthly Spotify listeners and 30,000 streams with nothing paid for. She now gets festival invitations from the scenes she's part of. One reel reached 118,000 views and 900 direct shares, because she knew her style and her Sonic Palette first.
In her words: "I've been self producing my own music for a few years and going through some trials and tribulations to figure it all out. Spending time with Patch has helped me a lot as he makes production skills I thought were super complicated feel super easeful, intuitive and actually quite simple. I encourage all artists to empower themselves to self produce their music and Patch will make that possible."
"Over the last year with Patch my production skills have gone through the roof. With his advanced knowledge of production combined with his musical intelligence he is the perfect person to be teaching this stuff."
"This has changed my life, because my artistic direction and the possibilities of how I'll bring my poetry and art into my life will definitely include music now, and it has branched my expression entirely."
"This course is important. My music is important. My creativity is important."
Chloe wrote and recorded a single with nobody else's hands on it, made four versions, and released all four as an EP on Bandcamp. Ronan had never recorded anything and finished his first demo within a week. James was sure he wasn't a tech person, felt blocked and barely touched the work for weeks, then ended up recorded a whole song live at home with real feeling in it.
Patch Murphy is a producer and bedroom-recording mentor, and the founder of Rainbow Root Records, a community label built around creative empowerment. He's an in-house producer and has recorded with influential artists. None of those rooms taught him his skills were real. They agreed with what a scrappy bedroom had already proven.
His own releases go back to his first at eighteen. They sit at 19k streams with nothing ever spent on ads, and he's happy for people to judge that, and wants people to then hear him working it out from early releases to newer styles, so that he practices what he preaches. His latest six-week online mentorship took 30 people from waiting to calling themselves self producing artists.
He still records in whatever room he's in, with whatever he's got. He wrote this book because he spent years believing his own music didn't count, and then watched musician after musician describe the same trap in almost the same words.
A few weeks from now, a melody arrives on the walk home and you don't lose it. You open the laptop, set a rough level, and get it down. The timing wobbles in the second half and you keep it anyway, because you've stopped hearing imperfect as wrong.
You finish a track that sounds like you and play it for someone without apologising for the gear first. The mic comes out of the box. The voice memo folder turns into songs.
Get your copy of The Art Of Self Produced Music and press record on the first one.