Music Isn’t Something You Finish. It’s Somewhere You Learn to Live.

Lost In Music began with something I experienced at university. Those were the years when I was most excited about practising, improving fastest and putting in the most time. I desperately wanted to find a band to play Chinese-language rock—No Party for Cao Dong, Omnipotent Youth Society, deca joins and The Chairs were some of my personal favourites.

But there were not many Chinese musicians in Toronto to begin with, and it was even harder to match people’s level and commitment. Some people, like me, were ready to invest a huge amount of energy. Some genuinely loved music but had limited time because of school or work. Others simply thought being in a band looked cool and wanted to try it casually. Building a stable band felt ridiculously difficult. Looking for people online was basically a blind draw.

At some of the commercial music schools I encountered, performances also tended to mean each student going onstage alone to play one piece. The setting could feel very serious without feeling especially musical.

So I kept thinking: what if there were a place to take lessons where students could feel a less commercial atmosphere and also meet musicians with a similar level and degree of commitment? For someone in that intense, enthusiastic stage of learning, wouldn’t that feel wonderful? That was the original idea behind Lost In Music.

In the years between, I taught guitar at two commercial music schools in Toronto. At least in the two schools where I worked, it was hard for teachers and students to build a relationship that felt both instructional and genuinely friendly. Was it the rules, the atmosphere of a commercial shop, or simply the personalities involved? I do not know. Maybe it was a bit of everything; maybe I was overthinking it.

What bothered me even more was that students barely knew one another. What music someone loved or how far they had progressed felt irrelevant to everyone else. Music needs so much interaction between people, and I found that separation unfortunate.

That was when I became sure I wanted a place where I could make the decisions myself and bring my own years of learning music into something I truly believed in.

The beginning was difficult, of course. We started as a home studio, and at first it was hard even to cover the rent. Once the major equipment costs were included, we were simply losing money. I am still deeply grateful to our first students for trusting us. Without them, there would be no Lost In Music as it is today—no community where people know one another, exchange ideas and begin forming bands.

Forcing an introduction between two strangers usually does not do much. They may meet once and never have another reason to interact.

The moments that bring students together here are much more ordinary. Their lesson times may overlap or fall one after another. The teachers already have a relaxed, funny way of talking together after lessons. Long-time students sometimes come by even when they do not have a class, simply to play and chat. That atmosphere lets a new student think, “This feels like a place where I can open up.” They begin to join naturally. That is how it feels to me.

Matching students for a band is a different matter, and we take it more carefully. Teachers consider what they know about each student: how long they have studied, their foundation, current level, and even their work or school situation because that affects scheduling. We then make a recommendation. Nothing is forced; a band only comes together when everyone feels comfortable with it.

In that sense, the studio acts a little like a connector. It may not sound dramatic, but where else in Toronto can you find someone who understands both sides—their level, commitment and way of working together—and is specifically trying to help students form a band?

We welcome complete beginners as well as advancing players. Among our current students, nearly every level is represented short of fully professional musicians. My own confidence is that if you genuinely want to play in a band, finding the right group here is usually a matter of time. Every person develops at a different pace, though, so we do not promise a fixed timeline.

One boundary is important: at the moment, band introductions are only for students who are learning at Lost In Music. We do not offer a separate matching service for non-students. With someone we have not taught, we cannot confidently assess their level, commitment or fit, and they do not yet have the context of the studio’s culture. Those things matter enormously when a band is coming together.

The full answer is complicated, but one difference is that adults often understand their own needs more clearly: the music they like, the way they want to interact with people, and the source of their internal motivation. Children who are still at the beginning usually need more time to build foundations and discover where their real enthusiasm comes from before playing music begins to flow naturally.

That does not mean we only teach adults. My sense is that many of the adults and teenagers who choose Lost In Music are drawn to the same thing: a learning atmosphere that is less driven by external achievement.

Let me be clear: we relax the anxiety, not the standard.

We are not against exams or competitions. RCM and Rockschool are both recognised benchmarks. If a student wants to prepare for one, we prepare seriously and pay attention to every detail. But a measuring stick is there to measure with, not something you spend your life chasing.

We emphasise this because we have seen the limitation many times.

One student had completed a high-level piano exam in China and could play Chopin’s Revolutionary Étude. In a small ensemble, we gave the student a chart with chord symbols and asked them to follow the drummer—and they froze. They could play the advanced piece, but no one had taught them where the first beat was, what the other musicians were doing, or when their own part needed to leave space.

Another student had reached a high Rockschool level and had genuinely strong technique. But away from the page, when asked, “What key was that passage in?” they could not answer. The score had become the only channel between the player and the music. When the channel disappeared, nothing was left.

That was not the students’ fault. Their previous years of practice had been aimed at one task: play the notes printed on the page accurately.

When we say “less driven by external achievement,” we mean that beyond exam requirements we deliberately spend time on things that never appear on a score sheet: ear training, learning songs by ear, improvisation, ensemble playing, transposition and keeping time with a recording. These skills do not create an immediate certificate, but they determine how much musical ability remains when the teacher and the score are no longer there.

We are especially strict about fundamentals—hand position, physical use, rhythm and listening. We can be very persistent about them. A debt in fundamentals comes due three or five years later, usually in the form of, “I cannot play the song I actually want to play.” Fundamentals are not a punishment. They are the cost of freedom.

I also do not see relaxation and progress as opposite ends that need to be balanced. What makes people quit is not simply that practice is tiring; it is that practice has lost its meaning. Between a child who finishes the highest exam level at twelve and never touches the instrument again, and someone who still chooses to play for half an hour on a weekend at forty, we hope to help create the latter.

We know this is not the right approach for every family. If the sole goal is to receive a particular certificate within three years, there may be more efficient options. But if you want a child’s relationship with music to last longer than childhood, that is the side Lost In Music stands on.

The name came from our first feeling about music: sound is like mist. You cannot see or hold it, but you are undeniably inside it—surrounded by it and changed by it.

If someone remembers only one sentence, I hope it is this: music is not something you finish. It is somewhere you learn to live. The mist is not about being lost. It is about being immersed.

From the outside, the ideal Lost In Music might not look very different. It would still be a small studio. Someone would be practising, someone else playing in an ensemble, and someone would make a mistake and laugh before anyone else could.

The real change would happen after they left.

Years later, a student may have moved, changed jobs and lived through the things life brings. One evening they pass a piano, sit down, and their hands still remember. They may not play the piece they once prepared for an exam. They play the piece they want to play at that moment.

I hope they carry away one ability and one relationship. The ability is this: when they find a new song they love, they dare to work it out by ear; when they meet other musicians, they dare to sit down and play. The relationship is that music is no longer a childhood task someone required them to complete. It becomes the thing that is there for the next several decades—when they are happy and when they are hurting.

If a student later forms a band or becomes a teacher, wonderful. If they simply play one song for their family every Lunar New Year, that is equally wonderful.

Ultimately, we are not trying to produce a certain number of professional musicians. We want everyone who has spent time here to have somewhere in music to go, to retreat and to live throughout the rest of their life.

The mist eventually lifts, but the person has been touched by it. That is enough.