Today we’d like to introduce you to Elan Portnoy.
Hi Elan, so excited to have you on the platform. So before we get into questions about your work-life, maybe you can bring our readers up to speed on your story and how you got to where you are today?
I was born and forged in New York City—forty years in the concrete jungle that taught me everything I know about music, rhythm, and survival. I learned to play guitar, to write songs that actually meant something, and to form bands before I was even old enough to drive. I started my first band at age ten (The Decades). By the time most kids were figuring out high school, I was already onstage with professional musicians, chasing the electricity of real rock and roll.
Then came the early ’80s—and The Fuzztones. That band wasn’t just a gig; it was ignition. My first time in a real studio, watching the tape spin while we carved sound into vinyl. My first records. My first real clubs—places that smelled like sweat, beer, and possibility. Touring, chasing the night, living the dream I’d been fantasizing about since childhood. That’s when my musical life stopped being an idea and became a destiny.
As the years rolled on, I dove deep into the craft—songwriting, production, sound design. I expanded into film scores, video work, and anything that let me push music into different dimensions. Every band, every project was a new frontier, a new chance to evolve.
In 2007, I uprooted myself and moved to Kansas City. I got married. I had triplets—three tiny miracles who changed my world overnight. Music took a backseat for a moment, but the heartbeat never stopped. Eventually, the pull of the stage resurfaced, and I started new projects. It was chaos juggling family and creativity, but when something is in your blood, you don’t run from it.
Later, in Lawrence, fate introduced me to Joey Skidmore, who invited me to join his band for his legendary annual Skid-O-Rama festival. His wife, Iryna, produced it with a rock-and-roll elegance that tied everything together. Those shows were electric. I shared the stage with people I’d idolized for decades, including Tony Valentino of The Standells; Jimy Sohns of The Shadows of Knight, and Mitch Ryder. That alone felt like a chapter from a different lifetime—standing shoulder to shoulder with the musicians who shaped my soundtrack.
Today, most of my energy goes into producing records and crafting film scores—building worlds through sound—but the stage still calls to me like an old lover. The lights, the roar, the vibration of a crowd breathing in rhythm… I can feel it in my bones.
And trust me—when I answer that call, it’s going to be loud.
We all face challenges, but looking back would you describe it as a relatively smooth road?
Trying to build a life as a musician is like wrestling a thunderstorm—especially in New York City. The city chews up dreamers and spits out the bones. I spent years clawing my way through it, holding down side jobs just to stay afloat while chasing the only thing that ever mattered: the music.
After high school, while everyone else was choosing majors and signing loan forms, I chose the edge of the world. I deferred college and threw myself into the fire—working in a recording studio by day, playing in rock and roll bands by night. It was gritty, sleepless, and unforgiving. But it was real. It felt like destiny. There was no Plan B. Nothing—absolutely nothing—could stop me.
Deep down, it wasn’t even a choice. If I didn’t follow that path, I wouldn’t have truly lived. There’s living, and then there’s living the way you were carved to live. Music was the oxygen in my blood, and I wasn’t about to suffocate for someone else’s idea of a “normal” life.
Now, I’m older. I’m not rich. I don’t have a mansion overlooking Malibu. But you know what? I made it through. I survived it. And I’m still here—still creating—with the support of my beautiful partner Marina and a circle of incredible friends who keep me grounded and inspired.
People ask if I regret anything. If I’d do it differently. And the truth? Not a single note. Not a single sleepless night. Not a single sacrifice. When I look back, with everything that’s happened, I see perfection—raw, chaotic, unpolished perfection. The kind that only comes from chasing your calling with no seatbelt and no safety net.
Alright, so let’s switch gears a bit and talk business. What should we know about your work?
I’ve always been addicted to experimentation. If there was a new musical angle to explore, I was there. I taught myself keyboards, drums, bass—anything with strings or keys or skins that could vibrate. I loved the challenge of building entire songs on my own, alone with a four-track tape machine, chasing the exact sound that lived in my head. There was something wild about it—me vs. the tape, sculpting music out of nothing but instinct and obsession.
Somehow, along the way, I ended up playing on around a hundred records. A hundred stories. A hundred fingerprints in the history of underground rock and roll.
This past year, I had the honor of producing an LP based on a legendary 1984 New York festival I put on called Fuzz Fest ‘84, released on TeenSound Records in Italy. That fest brought together six of New York City’s fiercest garage bands—dense walls of fuzz, sweat, and raw energy. For people who follow that sound, Fuzz Fest ‘84 isn’t a footnote—it’s folklore. Being part of resurrecting that moment was like resurrecting a small piece of rock history.
Last year, my first solo 7″ 45 finally hit the world. It might sound simple—just a record—but it was huge for me. It was proof that after decades of collaboration, I could stand completely on my own. And more recently, I finished scoring an absolutely killer documentary that should be out within the next few months. Film scores, bands, festivals, vinyl cuts—I love the feeling of stretching into new territory.
I’m grateful I poured everything into this life. When I look back, I don’t see chaos or sacrifice—I see legacy. Every song, every record, every score is a chapter. These works will live on long after I’m gone. They’ll tell my story and maybe spark a fire in someone else—just like the musicians who lit the fuse in me.
We’d be interested to hear your thoughts on luck and what role, if any, you feel it’s played for you?
If I’m being honest, I’ve been insanely lucky. It’s like the universe kept dropping me in the right place at the right time, again and again, and somehow I knew exactly what to do with it. I had parents who understood me—who didn’t tell me to quit dreaming, who didn’t try to force me into something small or predictable. They saw the spark early on and told me to run with it. That kind of support is rare, and I never forget it.
And then there was the other side of it—my stubborn streak, my refusal to compromise, my need to do things my way even when it meant scraping by. Mix all of that with brutal work ethic, endless nights with no sleep, and an unshakable belief in the music I was making, and it becomes this wild, explosive cocktail of fate and obsession.
People talk about luck like it’s some passive miracle that falls from the sky. But the truth is, luck only matters if you’re ready to meet it head-on. I showed up—bleeding, exhausted, wide-eyed—and every time the door cracked open, I pushed it off its hinges.
I couldn’t have been luckier.
Contact Info:
- Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/portnoyelan
- Other: https://elanportnoy.bandcamp.com/
