Ed Roman and the Soul of a Pawnshop Ghettoblaster: An Artist’s Reckoning with Compromise, Creativity, and the Call of the Wild

 Ed Roman is not your typical singer-songwriter. He’s a philosopher-farmer, a musical shapeshifter, and a man unafraid to put the system on trial—even if it means baring his soul in the process. In his latest work, Pawnshop Ghettoblaster, Roman fuses satire, social commentary, and raw vulnerability into a sonic diary of artistic survival. From late nights in farmhouse studios to painful industry compromises and the enduring echo of a lost friend’s laughter, Roman’s journey is anything but conventional. In this candid conversation, he opens up about the music industry’s smoke and mirrors, the spiritual weight of performance, and the timeless power of staying true to yourself.

Ed, you’ve described “Pawnshop Ghettoblaster” as a metaphor for the compromises artists make. I want to ask you—have you ever truly felt like you were trading a piece of your soul to survive in the music industry?

Compromises come in a vacillating scale. More often than not, if you want to keep working without argument, you listen to the producer when working on other projects. I have been hired a number of times as a certain kind of player only to be asked to play something extremely simplistic. If you’ve asked me to play on your material because you like my playing and ideas, why then revert back to something so baseline. Please excuse the pun. For years I played cover music in different bands. The repetitive nature of that is enough to dilapidated anybody with an artistic conscience and forward thinking approach.  

You’ve said that the song was born from a magical moment with lifelong friends in a farmhouse studio. What did that time teach you—not just about music—but about yourself?

Things need to flow. Allowing yourself to become lost in decision making and over thinking can destroy the very essence of the origin and idea. Don’t be so concerned with completion. That will happen on its own. The most important thing is you allow the song writing process to pull you through the experience. I don’t want things to sound contrived. Clinical and static as it were. Things can have rough edges, and at the same time be extremely precise.  

Your work often blends humor, politics, and social critique. Were you always this fearless in your expression, or was there a turning point in your life that gave you permission to be unapologetically you?

My father was a devoted public servant. Not a politician. He hated that word. He was the mayor of our township for over 30 years, chairman of our region, the first coalition candidate ever in Canadian federal politics and police commissioner for over 14 years. When you find yourself in that playground, you start to realize people are trying to get you to continually compromise your principles.   People tried to bribe my father to split votes, both provincially and federally, he was asked across the floor in federal politics but knew he could achieve more for his riding as an independent. He understood Geo politics, and more so crypto politics better than most. Part of my education, growing up with spending a great deal with my father, and understanding the mechanisms of the real working world and not the façade and matrix that most find themselves unconsciously in. I always sensed and understood that something nefarious was occurring continually around me both socially and politically. Humour and sarcasm can be the greatest weapon that we can wield. My reflections of the current moment of time we live in exemplify my perceptions and understanding of the greater crooks of the problem. The reflections of these ideas can be extremely potent with the backdrop of rhythm and music. 

This isn’t just a song—it’s a visual experience. What was it about Paul Ribera’s art that made you trust him with your musical vision? And what do you see when you watch the video?

I was immediately taken back by Paul’s work. His illustrations remind me of artwork I remember seeing when I was much younger growing up in the 70s and 80s. At the same time his fractal-like approach to the evolving canvas is very current and original. He has done many music videos from both past and present with bands like Pearl Jam. I was smitten with his approach. A certain kind of nostalgia intermingled with a modern flair. We started an open dialogue online and got to know each other. I trusted him implicitly, because he is a comrade in arms as it were. Somebody that loves and understands music and allows his ideas to reflect a bigger part of the picture. 

You’ve worked as a sideman, a session musician, and now as a front-facing artist with a singular voice. Which version of Ed Roman do you feel most at home in—and which version scares you the most?

As a radio receives a transmission via invisible waves, I am nothing more than that. A transmitter of information through my own subconscious and lived experiences. The energy of the songs takes me over in a live performance in a way which is more like a form of meditation, or the conjuring of the character of the song as a whole.  I am most at home in that realm.  The only thing that really scares me is ignorance. 

There’s a raw honesty in your lyrics, especially lines like “let me outside, let me play.” Do you ever feel creatively caged in a world that demands content over substance?

The music industry is a shallow hollow place. So often artists are created and not allowed to forge their own pathway. The only time I feel caged is when I am arrested in my opinions and actions. In our more modern times, open dialogue about social concerns are suppressed because they don’t fit a narrative. In my own country of Canada, the amount of governmental censorship is akin to what you would see totalitarian and communist regimes. Pushed to the bottom of the algorithm or completely censored because of subject matter. I don’t care what the industry or Government has to say anymore. I’ve always made music for myself as a form of spiritual & personal reflection. 

You’ve spoken about your late friend Bain Arnold and the role he played in this song’s original recording. How does his presence live on in your music today?

I think about him more than often. We did a lot of growing together. Both musically and as friends. We worked on farms together when we were younger, and had robust life experience as a result of that environment. A different kind of work ethic. Work all day and play all night. Every year around March we would rent a lot of recording gear and spend a week locked up in somebody’s house writing and recording. It was all part of the process when it came to understanding the inner workings of music and how we wanted things to sound. We also allowed ourselves a lot of leeway to be silly and have fun with material that people would probably never hear. Creating parodies of popular numbers was one of our favourite pastimes. We were like brothers. More than just friends. That intimate relationship you feel with certain musicians is unclassifiable. I still hear his laugh and his playing running through me. 

Finally, Ed, if someone—years from now—were to come across “Pawnshop Ghettoblaster” for the first time, what would you hope they understand about the man behind the music?

I must say thank you so kindly for having me today and it’s been a pleasure to be able to speak with you. I’m really just a simple guy creating something out of nothing. Music to me is a kin to gardening and farming. A barren plot of land that needs to be weeded, tilled, hoed, planted and nurtured. Nothing happens without your intention. In time it sustains you in a bigger way than just consumption. A robust heartfelt attachment to the tactical nature of the activity. I belong to the land, not the other way around. I belong to music. As a pantheist, my living environment has taught me more than I expected. A reverence for all things, great and small. An energy flow in a bio electric tapestry of existence. I am an animal. The linguistic ape. Pawnshop Ghettoblaster is a reflection of our moment in time.