My journey through the world of music is full of many memorable milestones, but what truly stands out are the wonderful people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting along the way. So the following summary will set a spot on them.

Well then, who am I?

I am a spontaneous, emotional, and creative spirit, all of it without detours! Some find my presence intimidating at first; others see me as intense, honest, and direct. When a topic interests me, I become fully engaged—my heart and mind instantly connect with the environment and the emotions in the room, and ideas flow like a shaken bottle of sparkling water in the moment of opening.

I aim to balance melancholy and genuine joy through my voice, staying authentic and free of fluff. Sometimes, I carry arrows in my quiver, and my bow shoots poetry. As a soulful archer, I enjoy deep exploration, unafraid of challenging terrain, and I try to transform obstacles into something beautiful through art. When I sing, I try to create a space that encourages openness. I write and sing for those longing to feel truly alive again—those who see music as a powerful prayer and believe every word can lift them back into the skies.

Melancholy is a journey.

I am a seeker, walking a narrow, tightrope—the trapeze of life—between the light and shadow of melancholy.

My voice is like a time machine, bringing back its journeys, as well as the faces and hearts of those I have been privileged to meet. I have always been a nomad, seeking harmony amidst towns, coastlines, and sleepless nights beneath the full moon. Looking back on my long journey, I first find fragments—small snippets. In what follows, I try to piece some of them together, like a jigsaw puzzle.

The Day I Fell in Love at School

Reflecting on a winter’s day in my childhood, I picture myself in our schoolyard, a boy catching my eye. He has curly hair and wears a sheepskin-lined hooded coat. I secretly follow him. That afternoon, I discovered that he plays the guitar. I find it all very captivating. Everything seems so alluring — so soft, just like his eyes, which seem to be calling out to me. I feel strangely drawn to him, as if I have known him forever. At the same time, I am bewildered and can no longer think clearly.

All the girls admire him. His brown eyes sweep the room, curiously searching. And everyone agrees that he sings like Cat Stevens. We sit in the same room, yet sadly, he does not notice me.

When I get home, I write in my glittering diary, *My Mysterious Island*, as I do nearly every day. It’s where I record my private thoughts. Today, my entry is all about this boy — his gaze, his eyes, and his captivating presence. Back then, I didn’t yet grasp what melancholy truly was.

My First Song

There was an incident involving our feathered pet—a budgerigar named Hansi. My father believed that Hansi had psychic abilities—that he could read minds or even distinguish between good and evil. This little bird was his close confidant (and perhaps even his adviser), and he allowed him to perch on his head while he went about his cooking.

But then, one day, something incredibly heartbreaking happened. When I came home on a cold winter afternoon, I found Hansi lying peacefully but motionless on the floor. No one had prepared me for this, what it feels like when a beloved being passes away—what it smells like or feels like when death quietly enters the house: that unexpected visitor. 

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What on earth was I supposed to do with that stiff little bird’s body? I was in shock. I was an eight-year-old schoolchild, and at home no one would speak about it. I didn’t know how to handle the dead bird. Later, my mother took him away with my little toy shovel and—quite literally—Hansi flew straight into the rubbish bin. Lid shut; done—no prayer, no farewell ceremony.

I turned back to my notebook.

It worked on my very first song—one I composed on my twelve-string guitar. That evening, I began to sing the lines I had written. I sat alone in my parents’ bedroom, my guitar in my hands. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the old hinged mirror and watched myself as I began to sing:

“I sing this song for you, little bird. But I also sing for my mother, who is weeping now.”

I remember that moment as an intense, melancholic, trembling, and immensely powerful sensation. It was a moment that awakened within me the desire to write more songs.

Black Magic Woman

It was a mild evening in May, about half past six. I had secretly thumbed a lift to our village disco. My father had forbidden it; he claimed I was too young. But I had to get out! I wanted to dance in my new fringed boots—I had spent weeks working to earn them, harvesting potatoes for the local farmer.

I’ve always hoped to be noticed and was ready for anything that might happen. This place, our cosy village disco, still vividly evokes the scents of beer, bratwurst, and damp walls. Those moments are full of deep emotions and heartfelt longings that I treasure.

I was seeking ecstasy — the sweat after a wild dance, the boys’ scuffles, the wet kisses, the hand-holding — all of which always seemed to lead to falling in love.

Every girl at our school had her eyes on the DJ. Everyone desired him. He wore a ribbed tank top that showed his toned muscles; he had tanned skin and pale green eyes. To me, he looked almost otherworldly in his beauty.

Out of all the girls interested in him, he chose me. I performed a barefoot dance to Santana, wildly tossing my sweaty hair in the air. I then dropped to my knees, feeling the emotional power of the air guitar—Santana’s riffs are like a divine cry —and I dedicated all of this to him.

A voice within me declared, “It’s you. You are the one; we are the ones. No one can separate us. You and I… Me and You. Watch me — I’m dancing just for you.”

I chose him and desperately longed to focus my heart on him. In the end, it worked; he became my first real boyfriend. He swore his eternal love to me.

My First Band

Together, we formed a band. It was my first, and it was very well received. We played our own songs with pure joy and even earned some money. My friend played the guitar flawlessly, and I was the band’s vocalist. I was often praised: “You sing incredibly! Where do you find such power?” All of this gave me confidence.

One day, while I was bringing my 12-string Eko guitar home from a rehearsal, disaster struck. It slipped from my hands, shattered, with strings snapping and wood splintering. That same day also marked the end of my first great love.

When I spoke to his mother, she whispered, “Don’t be sad. He doesn’t love you any more. There is someone else…”

On a Sunday, both my first love and my first guitar broke.

Facing death gives way to a profound inner realisation

When I was still very young, I got seriously ill, and I had to remain at home. After a few days, my father intervened by carrying me downstairs to the car and rushing me to the emergency room.

“It’s uncertain right now whether she will recover.” The doctors told him. Diagnosis: tuberculosis! Luckily, the doctors saved me, but I spent a long time living at the clinic. Even now, I can still hear the coughing of people in the corridors.

I want to share one of the few happy memories I keep of that time:

There was a weird sound—a dull echo coming from the endless corridors. It caught my attention during my daily explorations of the clinic, and then, as if out of nowhere, I found a massive door. I was curious to find out what that sound was about. Feeling adventurous, I opened the door, and to my joyous surprise, I found a black Steinway Piano that had made itself grandly comfortable there. I named it “Dr Stein”, and over the next few weeks, it became my confidant.

Every song I wrote alongside “Dr Stein” was a reflection of my inner thoughts about that monster, whose ravenous hunger gradually devoured my right lung.

One morning, when I awoke from a coma, the nurses had moved my bed out onto the balcony, into the gentle sunlight. “Look who’s back,” they greeted me kindly. I had no idea what a near-death experience was. It changed me forever. From that day on, I cultivated an incredibly strong will. I was determined to find a way out of that situation.

A short time later, I received my first “negative” — the result when no more malignant bacteria were detectable. My first thought was: “I’m going to Berlin. That’s where the soul is; that’s where I belong!”

Berlin Calling

My older brother has always been an inspiring role model to me. I was excited to join his band as a singer, and it was wonderful for our parents to see how music genuinely brought us all together.

My time at the Regional Court of Appeal, and the many individuals I encountered there and in the courtrooms, really opened my eyes to how these experiences could also inspire songs.

Looking back, it was likely that old, creaky Steinway Grand Piano in the clinic that set me on the path to the music industry. “Dr Stein” was a transcendental experience — it expanded my mind and heart, making it clear that I would soon focus on singing, writing songs, and performing on stage.

One evening, a gentleman called Mr Yogi kindly offered to drive me to Berlin in his Mercedes, where I was about to have my first studio recording session. I was overwhelmed by a strong desire to stay in Berlin, convinced it held a bright, promising future. Driven by my passion, I pursued my love for funk and soul music. Soon after, I was delighted to land my first record deal. From that moment on, I happily embraced the name “MAX.”

However, Germany wasn’t really into Funk & Soul music. Instead, a vibrant New Wave was sweeping through the music scene — a wonderful revival of the German language itself, after many years of feeling ashamed and trying to distance ourselves from our own tongue.

Eventually, I had the great opportunity to meet the talented producer of the Rainbirds and Nina Hagen. I also met Nena’s manager, Jim Rakete, who graciously welcomed me and offered his support. Later, I had the amazing chance to join Udo Lindenberg on his thrilling big-arena tour, travelling through Western Germany, Switzerland, and Austria.

Around the World and back

Living in Berlin, Vienna & New York, touring through England, the USA and Japan — endless adventures across the globe, each destination unveiling a new facet of life. I feel truly grateful to have travelled alongside amazing international stars like Simply Red, Falco, Udo Lindenberg, and many others.

Besides making music, I studied ballet, as dancing is my second greatest passion. In New York, I had the privilege of working with exceptional teachers. I took the opportunity to visit a gospel church, where I met some legendary figures of American soul music. But after living overseas for a while, I came to the point: „This isn’t the path for me!“

During my time in Vienna, while on tour with Falco, I encountered my first shaman. At a healing ritual, where I took a deep breath of incense, he explained to me: „The lungs represent grief, but your singing is a healer.“ At that moment, I understood why healing through music is so impactful — I instantly knew this was my true calling, my way to go.

I chose to stay in Vienna, and during a delightful Fiaker tour with Falco, I enjoyed exploring the city’s historic centre while relishing delicious slices of Sachertorte. In the vibrant company of eccentric artists, I saw music projects come alive. Sometimes, those moments were heightened by encounters with supernatural energies, leading to artworks created with blood and egg yolk. It sounds a bit odd, but it really happened!

Beneath our recording studio, a dance studio operated by a renowned Chicago choreographer, reputed for their clairvoyant talents. Here, I composed my first a cappella song — a heartfelt piece celebrating beings of light, infused with comforting aromas of almonds, vanilla, and the mystical supernatural. Soon, my music was heading in a completely new direction.

One day, I received a plane ticket from my record label to meet Dave Stewart (of the Eurythmics) for some new demo sessions. We connected right away and had a wonderful chat that lasted for hours. Our conversation touched on topics like spirituality and why wolves are such fascinating, intense creatures. We also shared our thoughts on why there are so few women in the music industry. In the end, we didn’t work on any new demos, and honestly, that turned out to be a really good thing.

Helm Hard to Starboard

After circumnavigating the globe, I returned my ship to Hamburg’s harbour.

I anchored and launched a few youth initiatives, coached individuals overcoming stage fright, and led seminars in juvenile detention centres, all of which are close to my heart because of the special meaning I find in communal singing.

SOULWRITING was born — the art of collaboratively creating deeply personal songs is a daring pursuit, and it truly brings me a sense of deep fulfilment.