25 Years in the Making

If you’re a drummer, finding a place to play can become a lifelong search. Drums and cymbals are loud. Really loud. Because of that, every drummer spends part of their life searching for a place where they can truly practice, lay down grooves and make music. Sometimes it’s a spare bedroom. Sometimes it’s a storage unit, a warehouse, or a rehearsal room shared with other musicians.

For most musicians, a rehearsal room is simply a place to practice. For me, every studio became much more than that. They were places where bands were formed, songs were written, friendships grew, ideas became videos, and dreams slowly took shape. Looking back now, I realize every one of those spaces was preparing me for one destination.

The journey began in my hometown of Guadalajara, Mexico, where my dad, whom everyone knows as “El Chori,” helped me add the acoustic treatment that transformed El Cuarto Nuevo into my very first drum room. My family called it “El Cuarto Nuevo” (The New Room) because it was the newest room added to the house where I grew up. Over time, it became much more than just another room in the house. It was where my brothers, friends, and I spent countless hours playing video games, chatting on MSN Messenger (remember that?), and simply hanging out. As I got older, that same room became my creative sanctuary, where I practiced the drums, played guitar, rehearsed with my brother and different bands, and truly fell in love with music.

Looking back now, I realize that room wasn’t just where I learned to play the drums. It was where I discovered that music wasn’t simply a hobby. It was becoming part of who I was. It also introduced me to one of the realities every drummer eventually faces: our instrument isn’t exactly neighbor-friendly. From the very beginning, finding and adapting a place to make music became part of the journey itself.

When I moved to Los Angeles to attend Musicians Institute, the search continued. While I was a student, the school provided practice rooms, so I always had somewhere to play and practice. But after I graduated, that changed. If I wasn’t practicing on silent pads, I was renting a small rehearsal room in North Hollywood. A few months later, after joining a band, I moved into a shared rehearsal space with them. Los Angeles taught me that musicians become experts at adapting. You learn to make the most of whatever space you have because the alternative is simply not playing at all.

After moving back to Mexico, I rebuilt my studio once again, first in Mexico City, where I transformed a room in my apartment into a practice and rehearsal space with acoustic treatment. Being on the first floor was a blessing since the vibration of the bass drum wasn’t as much of an issue in the building. Many awesome musical memories were made in that apartment. Later, I packed every acoustic panel, moved everything two hours north to Querétaro, and built another studio. Then I did it all over again after moving into a second house. Every move meant rebuilding. Every studio taught me something new. Looking back now, I realize I wasn’t just building rooms. I was slowly learning what my dream studio would eventually become.

San Antonio, Texas, brought another chapter. I rented two different storage units where I could finally practice without constantly worrying about disturbing anyone. It was probably the first time I felt like space wasn’t the enemy. Everything really is bigger in Texas… including the rehearsal spaces. Thankfully, they were cheaper too. Those storage units reminded me how much freedom comes from having a place that’s entirely your own.

When I eventually moved to South Florida, the search started all over again. I rented a warehouse in Doral close to where I worked, but the cost made it difficult to use the space as much as I had hoped.

So once again, I adapted.

The living room of my apartment in Little Havana became my new studio. By then I had switched to a Roland V-Drums electronic kit, which allowed me to practice, rehearse, and record without worrying nearly as much about the neighbors. That little apartment became home to rehearsals, recordings, experiments, and countless creative nights. It wasn’t the dream studio, but it kept the dream alive.

Then I discovered The Bridge, a warehouse in Miami where dozens of musicians rehearsed, recorded, and collaborated. It felt less like renting a room and more like joining a creative community. I started with a small room where I had the opportunity to record live drums more seriously than ever before. Later, I moved a few doors down to share a larger space with the Miami rock band Minimal, where we spent the next few years writing, rehearsing, recording, and simply enjoying the creative process together.

Eventually another opportunity came along. My wife and I moved to Boca Raton, and once again, things changed. 

For nearly eight years, I shared a warehouse in Oakland Park with my band POCKiT, Fusik, Tony and the Kings, and several other musicians who came through those doors. It was relatively close to home, and that warehouse became much more than a rehearsal room. It became a second home. It was the longest I had ever stayed in one creative space, and for a while, it truly felt like home.

Then the pandemic happened.

Like everyone else, suddenly I was spending most of my time at home. I still had the warehouse with the guys, but getting together to rehearse or simply going out wasn’t really an option for a while.

So once again, I adapted.

At my house in Boca Raton, I put together an electronic drum setup using different pedals, MIDI devices, and whatever technology I could experiment with to keep playing and creating from home. That period became very experimental for me and opened up another way of thinking about drums, sound, and technology.

And my neighbor probably appreciated the experiment too. Believe it or not, even without the volume of an acoustic drum kit, the vibration of a regular bass drum pedal was enough to become an issue. Apparently, being a drummer means you can remove the noise and still somehow annoy the neighbors.

Eventually, I returned to the warehouse and the creative community we had built there. Some of my proudest musical memories happened inside those walls. Songs were written there. Videos were filmed there. Collaborations became friendships, and friendships became lifelong relationships. Looking back now, I realize it wasn’t just a warehouse. It was where I found my creative community.

When that chapter finally came to an end, I realized I wasn’t searching for another rehearsal room anymore.

I was searching for permanence.

That search eventually led my family and me to Boynton Beach.

Finding the right house wasn’t simply about buying a home. It was about finding a place where creativity could finally have a permanent address. Most people would have seen an empty garage. I saw twenty-five years of ideas, drums, cymbals, hardware, cameras, stands, microphones, recordings, and countless temporary studios finally finding a home.

After years of rebuilding studios, moving acoustic panels, loading drum kits into trucks, and starting over…

I finally stopped searching.

That home became La Cueva.

Why “La Cueva”?

Ironically, the name didn’t begin as a branding exercise. It started as a family joke.

After we moved into the house, I spent weeks unpacking and organizing more than twenty-five years of musical gear, hundreds of different cables, hard drives, and all the equipment that had followed me from one studio to the next. My mother-in-law and my wife would laugh and say, “Ya está en la cueva.” (“He’s in the cave again.”)

Over time, the joke stuck.

The more I thought about it, the more I realized it couldn’t have been a better name.

A cave is a place of shelter. A place where ideas are protected before they’re shared with the world. It’s quiet. It’s focused. It’s where musicians write songs, drummers lay down grooves, filmmakers tell stories, artists experiment, and creativity has room to breathe.

That’s exactly what I wanted this room to become.

The People Behind La Cueva

La Cueva wouldn’t exist without the people who helped shape it along the way.

Matt, who also happens to be my neighbor today, played an important role by introducing me to Salomon López. That one connection started everything. I shared the vision with Salomon, and he immediately understood what I was trying to build. Together with his family, he turned an empty garage into the creative space I had imagined for years.

A special thank you goes to my friend Paolo Angulo. His home studio was the original inspiration for La Cueva. Throughout the process, he shared ideas, materials, construction advice, and years of experience building his own creative space.

Building La Cueva wasn’t just about drywall, insulation, or acoustic treatment. Like every studio before it, it became another chapter shaped by the people around me. Every person who helped along the way left something behind in this room, and because of that, La Cueva tells more than my story. It tells ours.

Finally, there’s Roma.

More than any microphone, camera, drum set, or piece of gear, she’s the reason La Cueva means so much to me.

My hope is that she’ll grow up surrounded by creativity. That she’ll see music being made, films being created, stories being told, and ideas brought to life. Maybe one day she’ll pick up a pair of drumsticks. Maybe she’ll grab a camera. Maybe she’ll discover a completely different passion of her own.

It doesn’t really matter.

What matters is that she’ll always know there was a place where creativity lived.

A place built with patience, hard work, incredible people, and a dream that took more than twenty-five years to find its home.

Bienvenidos a La Cueva.