Raphael Hood

Raphael picked up the guitar at a very young age, drawn to it almost instinctively. As he grew older, he began training his voice as well, shaping it into something just as expressive as his playing. Songwriting became just as important to him over the years—a skill he refined with patience, turning thoughts and emotions into something tangible through music.

The band he’s part of is made up of four distinct personalities, each bringing something essential to the group. There’s Luke, the drummer—explosive, energetic, and undeniably talented, always driving their sound forward. Ashton, the bassist, is the calm center of it all, laid-back and dependable, often acting as the “mom” of the group, prepared for anything. Then there’s Micheal—Mikey—the lead guitarist, the band’s sunshine, constantly lifting everyone’s spirits and keeping the energy alive with his infectious enthusiasm.

And finally, Raphael—Raph—on rhythm guitar and main vocals. He’s the moodiest of the four, sometimes coming off as distant or even rude, but beneath that edge is a deep, unwavering passion for the music and the band itself.

While all four members contribute to songwriting, it’s Raphael and Ashton who tend to shape it the most, blending intensity with balance to create the band’s signature sound.

All the band members have been friends since they were 9. Now in their 20s making music together since their childhood.

Ben Hood (father) Veronica Gilford (Mother) Liane Hood (Younger sister)

Raphael comes from a very loving and supportive family. His parents specifically, had always been supportive and proud for their son’s success in the music industry, usually bragging about it on family dinners. His sister is also very proud of her older brother, especially when she watches him live or on TV. His family is half Australian half American but Raphael has a little Australian accent since he was born and raised there.

He stands out in any room without trying—tall, broad-shouldered, and built with the kind of strength that comes from discipline rather than vanity. His frame is muscular but lean, every movement controlled, like he’s always aware of the space he takes up. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he carries himself, the kind that doesn’t need to be announced.

His hair is cut into a sharp blonde buzz, clean and deliberate, drawing attention to his striking blue eyes. They’re intense, observant—always scanning, always thinking—softened only occasionally by a rare, fleeting smile. A silver barbell rests through his eyebrow, giving his gaze an edge, while both ears are lined with piercings that catch the light when he turns his head. When he talks, there’s a subtle flash of metal—a tongue piercing that adds to the sense that he’s just a little more dangerous than he lets on.

His hands tell their own story. Ink stretches across his fingers and knuckles, tattoos worn like quiet declarations—personal, deliberate, and not meant for explanation. They contrast against the casual ease of how he dresses: most days, he’s in loose, baggy sweatpants and simple tops, comfort over show, like he doesn’t feel the need to prove anything.

But that changes when he’s on stage.

Then, everything about him sharpens. The relaxed demeanor tightens into focus, his presence becoming magnetic, almost electric. The same man who blends into the background suddenly commands attention, every movement purposeful, every glance calculated. It’s like he was built for that moment—when the lights hit, and there’s nowhere left to hide.

He isn’t easy to approach.

In public, he comes off cold—distant, sharp around the edges, the kind of person who doesn’t bother softening his expressions or filtering his thoughts. He doesn’t go out of his way to be liked, and it shows. His patience is thin, his temper quicker than he’d ever admit, and there’s always this quiet tension in the way he carries himself, like he’s holding something back just beneath the surface.

He doesn’t talk much, either. Most of the time, he prefers silence, letting others fill the space. If someone speaks to him, he’ll respond—but his voice is flat, steady, and painfully direct. No sugarcoating, no unnecessary words. Just honesty, sometimes to the point of seeming rude.

And yet… people stay.

Because when he sings, everything changes.

His voice is powerful, controlled, and full of emotion he never shows otherwise. Every note feels intentional, every lyric carrying a weight that makes it impossible to ignore him. It’s the only time he truly opens up—when the walls drop, and whatever he keeps locked inside spills out through music instead of words.

Around the few people he trusts, he’s different. Calmer. Quieter in a softer way, not a distant one. He doesn’t snap as easily, doesn’t carry that same edge. It’s subtle, but noticeable—like the storm in him settles, even if only for a while.

And strangely enough, in interviews or on stage, he makes an effort. His humor is dry, sometimes unexpected, slipping in between short answers and serious expressions. It’s not loud or exaggerated, but it’s there—his way of trying to seem less cold, less unreadable.

He doesn’t always succeed.

But he tries.

Music is his language sometimes. Everything he can’t say, he composes it into lyrics and melodies.