‘A singer’. There was never any hesitation when I was asked what I wanted to be. Even at the age of four, it was a done deal.
Dancing around the house with my mum and listening to music was my first safe space. It was loud, dramatic and joyful. I didn’t start performing ‘properly’ until I was a little older, and growing up on a tiny island, becoming a dancer was hardly the most obvious route. It came with questions, raised eyebrows and a lot of challenges. But the first time I stepped onto a stage, I just felt as though I was in my safe space; it was home, so I never looked back. Ironically, it was the only place I didn’t feel I was performing to fit in; there was no pretending.
I started singing around fifteen, and although I trained in musical theatre, my heart was always pulling me somewhere else. Pop music. Writing. Creating my own world. I grew up listening to Britney, Gaga, Madonna, and all the pop girlies on repeat, completely mesmerised by their scale and fearlessness. I didn’t just want to sing songs; I wanted to build my own realm.
But confidence on stage does not always translate to confidence off it.
Coming out was one chapter. Fully owning my queerness was another entirely. Even after coming out, it took years to sit comfortably in my own skin. There is a difference between being out and being free. A lot of queer people understand that quiet internal journey, the unlearning and the shedding of shame you did not even realise you were carrying.
For me, the courage to be fully queer goes hand in hand with the music I write. Every time I choose honesty in a lyric, every time I refuse to dilute a feeling to make it more palatable, it feels like an extension of that same bravery.
That said, for a long time, I did not believe I was creating music correctly. I wrote lyrics, but dismissed them. I hated my voice for reasons I could not fully explain. I also thought you needed a record label to make something real, release music, put out an EP, and call yourself an artist.
So I danced. I toured. I worked in the West End. I appeared in feature films. And while I am grateful for every experience, there was always a quiet voice pulling me back to one thing. I wanted to be my own artist.
I would watch performers create entire emotional worlds through music, visuals and live shows. Their songs made me feel seen and understood, which in turn only intensified my own desire to create. There is a lyric, beat, and chorus for every moment of life. I did not just want to exist inside someone else’s vision. I wanted to stand in my own. So I did a Master’s in songwriting and production, and that is when everything shifted. I began to understand how to sculpt sound, how to take something intangible and turn it into something you can feel in your body. I stopped waiting for permission. In fact, I only started releasing music less than two years ago, and I am constantly evolving as an artist.
My sound currently sits within dance pop, but I like to call it sultry dance pop, music that moves you physically but lingers emotionally. My writing is deeply personal, rooted in my own experiences. What excites me about it is immortalising my emotions and encouraging people to move and get lost in it, too. Taking a fleeting feeling such as defiance, heartbreak, doubt or desire and giving it permanence and a purpose.
That is where My Divine Chaos was born.
For much of my life, I have felt like people only saw fragments of me. The dancer. The confident one. The dramatic one. Rarely the whole person. I was either too much or not enough. Too emotional or too controlled. That constant sense of being partially understood shaped me more than I realised. This EP lives in those contradictions. The title comes from a realisation that we are taught to see chaos as something negative, something messy that needs controlling. But when you peel back the layers, chaos is often the birthplace of transformation. The moments that felt overwhelming, confusing or painful shaped me. They sharpened my voice. This project holds thoughts I did not always feel safe expressing. Feelings, I softened to protect others. Parts of myself I tried to shrink. It is my refusal to do that anymore. I want listeners to hear it and think, I have felt that too, and I am not ashamed of it. I want them to recognise their strength in the very experiences they once thought defined or diminished them.
If there is one thing I have learned, it’s that the courage to be yourself and the courage to create are deeply intertwined. For me, music has always been the place where I practise both, and now I finally get to do it fully, in my own voice.
Luke Vella’s debut EP, My Divine Chaos, is out now.
