On the Rise
Mia Wray

Wray was born and raised in Noosa, Queensland before her family relocated to Melbourne. Growing up, she was the introverted one out of her “extroverted, loud, and classic performer” sisters. She preferred to be a wallflower watching from the sidelines. When Wray was alone in the comfort of her room, she found herself opening up. “I remember this one time my sister caught me playing piano and singing in my room. She thought it was a CD playing, and when she realized it was me, she was like, do that again. I genuinely felt like I was in trouble at first, but that was the moment people really started to listen. From there, I just started writing songs — it became my way of speaking when I didn’t feel like I could in other ways.”

As a kid, she’d sit in the passenger seat of the car while her mum drove, both of them relishing Eva Cassidy’s discography. They’d sit in the driveway, long after the song ended, just to let the song finish. “I think that was the first time I really felt something that emotionally intense through music. My mum’s really passionate about music — so is my dad — even though neither of them are musical themselves. My dad's a massive Elvis fan, and watching Elvis perform — his stage presence, the band, the sheer, potent energy — made me feel like, I want to do that. It was the first time I saw how powerful music could be, not just the sound but the whole performance.”

Like Cassidy, Wray’s early songwriting inspiration was folk-inspired. She lists Jewel, Bob Dylan, and Paul Kelly — “very acoustic artists” — as ones who shaped her the most. So, when Wray discovered Gabrielle Aplin, an artist who also credits Bob Dylan as an inspiration for her own folk songs, she wanted to be just like her: “I put myself in that category of folk pop artist. I wanted to be part of the UK folk pop scene, playing gigs with artists like Lewis Watson. I remember seeing Orla Gartland, Hudson Taylor, and Nina Nesbitt — just that whole group. I wanted to be just like them.”

At sixteen, Wray signed a publishing deal and a year later recorded her first EP where she, along with producer Greg Walker, played all the instruments. The next EP leaned into folk-country, Americana singer-songwriter vibes; recorded in Nashville with session musicians, an experience that made Wray feel detached from herself as an artist. “It felt a lot less me and a lot less collaborative. After that, I realised I didn’t know myself that well. I’d always put myself in this folk pop box — like I had to commit to it. I thought I had to be Gabrielle Aplin. It was heartbreaking to realise I wasn't, but also liberating.”

Between the second EP and 2020, when the first single of this new era started, Wray worked in hospitality and gigged a lot — cover gigs, weddings, support gigs — building her live experience around Melbourne. Eventually, the industry took a toll on her — she had a panic attack during a break at one hospitality job, inevitably becoming the catalyst to her pursuing music. She declared that whatever music opportunity came next, she would pursue it fully.

Wray figured out the music she wanted to make (“I stopped trying to be someone else”) and started writing again. Then The Voice Australia reached out. “I'm not that kind of artist,” she laughs, rolling her eyes. “But I told myself I had to commit to whatever came next, so I responded. I’ve never liked The Voice — it’s great for performers, but tricky for artists who write their own music. Still, the person reaching out seemed eager, so I thought maybe I could use this to my advantage. I went in for an interview, laid out my terms: I wanted to play my own songs, wear what I wanted, and see the contract before signing anything. Because once you sign, you're locked into a record deal if you win. I brought a lawyer on board to figure out the contract, but then they just wouldn’t budge on anything.”

It wasn’t a total wash, though. An A&R working on behalf of the record label that inevitably signs the winner discovered Wray and asked her to send him demos. It piqued her interest — if someone was interested in her, maybe another label would be, too. “I thought I could play them off each other and get myself a deal,” she laughs. She was already signed to Mushroom Publishing and, after finding out she was shopping around, the head of Mushroom Music essentially called her out. “He was like, “Hang on a minute, we’ve believed in you since you were 16.” And I was thinking, “Okay, well, where have you been? Show up!”

Soon enough, she had a meeting with Michael Gudinski, the founder of Mushroom and an Australian music icon. Their first meeting seemed more like a favour Gudinski was paying, leaving Wray unimpressed. Their second meeting went much smoother. “He asked, “What’s your vision?” And I laid it all out — a full band, horn section, backing singers, the lighting, the stage setup. I even started singing an a cappella part of 'Work for Me' — which ended up being my first single. Straight away, he was like, 'Fuck, I get it. I’m so excited.' From that point on, I was under his wing.”

When Wray speaks of Gudinski, she describes him as this larger-than-life man, affectionately playing a voicemail he left her before he passed away in 2021. “That was really hard,” she says. “I felt like the one person that really got it and also who had a lot of influence was gone. Everyone, through grieving, was like, we're gonna carry on his legacy. I think it's been really hard for everyone to find their feet.” She used his passing as a lesson to be more of a leader and “not rely on a powerful white man with a lot of influence.” Instead, she wants to be the “powerful man.” “Sadly, slowly but surely, this album has come together, and I finally have a debut record after being signed. But I blame Covid for that, Michael's death for that — things needed to repair before it came out. "

When I sit down with her to talk at a cafe in East London, she’s just come off a slew of shows across Europe — Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam, and two sold-out shows in London. It’s been an experience she has been waiting for, but it’s brought on emotions she wasn’t anticipating experiencing. “Sad But True,” one of the standout tracks on the album and Wray’s personal favourite, sees her reckoning with the realisation that she needs to end things with her long-term partner. “There was a line — "I've never known a love like this" — and another about being comfortable but not wanting to be,” she admits. “Something subconsciously was going on — I was too comfortable, and I knew change needed to happen. I knew I was settling.”

Wray began feeling complacent in her own life, emotionally breaking up with her partner — and writing the song about it — long before actually pulling the plug. Although she’s made peace with it now, playing it live has been a lesson in what it really means to wear your heart on your sleeve. “I've been playing it at my last couple of shows — usually I don't — and it’s felt really nice. But being so vulnerable to strangers about stuff like that can feel raw, like reopening a wound. It feels like exposure. Sometimes I need to physically hold myself.”

After COVID and Gudinski’s death, Wray had another life-altering realisation that came from a sexual awakening. “That was a whole thing,” she laughs. For those who, like Wray, subscribe to astrology and its teachings, there is a period in one’s life called a Saturn return which occurs every 27 - 30 years. It ushers growth, change, and self-reflection — all things that Wray was going through when she realised she was queer. “It demanded to be a record,” she states. “It has been hard being vulnerable and sharing these songs as I'm still going through it, especially this time last year when the first single from the record was released, which is called "Tell Her" — pretty self-explanatory what it's about. I'm still processing the breakup. I’ve been dealing with that and then being public about my sexual awakening, because that's part of my job, and then actually going through my sexual awakening. Sleeping with a woman for the first time, being able to talk to girls on Hinge, not boys — feeling like a teenager again, like, ‘oh my God, this is a rush.’ I feel like I’m 15, waiting for my crush to log in on MSN.”

The result of these realisations is the crux of hi, it’s nice to meet me, an album that charts Wray finally embracing every facet of who she is. Since going public about her sexual awakening, she’s had affirming experiences that everything she’s done up to this point — the delay in music, the breakup, the choices she’s made — has confirmed to her that she’s on the right path.

For now, though, Wray is just looking forward to having her first body of work after more than eleven years of working towards it to finally come out. She dreams of opening up for an artist she loves, like Olivia Dean or Maggie Rogers, on a full tour outside of Australia. She wants to continue keeping music a place of “real community” and hopes that one day, she can be the headliner and provide support to an opening act. “For me, it’s about fostering community and support. That’s what really matters.”