The Story of Things I Can’t Change For John Muka Band, music has always been more than expression—it has been refuge. Long before albums, stages, or full arrangements, music was one of the first places John Muka felt like he had a voice and a home. It offered meaning when words were scarce, and it carried a quiet but powerful truth: that life could still be beautiful, and that he was not only defined by the pain and experiences that shaped him early on. That belief became the foundation not just for songs, but for a lifetime of creating. The roots of the band stretch back decades. In the early 2000s, John was part of Spacious K, a jam-leaning rock band that played clubs and festivals across Northeast Florida. Those shows were long, improvisational, and unpolished in the best way—sets built on risk, exploration, and trust. A small but loyal community formed around that sound, drawn to the feeling that something real was happening onstage. That era planted the seeds: the love of improvisation, the patience to let songs breathe, and the belief that music is something you experience together. The John Muka Band didn’t arrive fully formed. It evolved slowly, shaped by years of writing, touring, changing lineups, and shared life experience. What eventually emerged was a group of musicians who weren’t just playing parts, but listening deeply to one another—allowing space for nuance, emotion, and dynamic range. At the core of that evolution is the long-standing creative partnership between John and Troy Towsley. Most of the songs on Things I Can’t Change began simply: John alone with an acoustic guitar, sketching melodies and lyrics rooted in lived experience. From there, Troy built the architecture—developing arrangements, layering textures, shaping transitions, and expanding those sketches into fully realized, cinematic pieces. He spent hundreds of hours producing and arranging the album, acting as both collaborator and translator, helping turn raw emotion into a cohesive sonic world. The band itself plays a crucial role in that world. Each member brings a distinct voice, contributing not just technically but emotionally. TR’s violin is a defining element—capable of tenderness and violence, often serving as the album’s emotional narrator when words fall short. Neil’s trumpet adds warmth, lift, and a human breath to the arrangements, often responding to the violin in moments of reflection and resolve. The rhythm section grounds everything, moving effortlessly between restraint and release, allowing the songs to expand without losing focus. Together, the band creates a sound that feels both expansive and intimate—a big jam-band presence built around disciplined songwriting. Things I Can’t Change is the most honest document of John Muka’s life to date.  Across twelve songs, it pulls from rock, funk, soul, folk, and jam-band energy. But beneath the stylistic range lies a single narrative thread: growing up unseen, carrying wounds forward, feeling rejected, and eventually learning—much later in life—how to live with the things you can’t undo. The title track stands at the center of the album’s philosophy. When John asks, “What if I knew what I know now, would I go back and change it somehow?” he’s speaking directly to his own childhood and the long road of overcoming odds that once felt impossible. The resolution—“I think I’ll just leave it that way, I really like the way it turned out”—is not dismissal of trauma, but acceptance. The things he can’t change are real. The song chooses to let them be part of the story rather than something to erase. That choice echoes throughout the album. “A Moments Thought” opens the record like a pause before movement—a meditative, almost spiritual breath. It captures the instant where you decide who you will be despite the past. Yet even here, chaos arrives. In the closing section, the music fractures and surges, with TR’s violin cutting through as a reminder of life’s unavoidable intensity and suffering. “No Reason” wrestles with existential questions—why pain exists, why betrayal cuts so deeply, why meaning feels elusive when someone you trusted lets you down. Built around a haunting melody written by Troy, the song leans fully into melancholy, honoring the depth and strange beauty found in sadness itself. “Be There” reflects a conscious decision to stay present for others, even when history suggests retreat. Shaped by John’s experience as a father, husband, and friend—without having stability modeled early in life—it’s a song about choosing commitment over fear. The interplay between violin and trumpet underscores that vulnerability, sounding like two voices learning how to trust. “No One Is There” reaches furthest back, drawing from childhood memories of isolation. It begins alone and sparse, then gradually opens into something communal, mirroring the journey from abandonment toward belonging. On “Foolish Pride” and “Not Me,” John confronts the survival mechanisms that once protected him but now demand to be unlearned. These songs are acts of accountability—naming ego and defensiveness not as villains, but as outdated armor. “Know What To Do” asks one of the album’s quietest but most piercing questions: if life handed you something good—real love, safety, opportunity—would you actually know how to receive it? Throughout the record, influences surface naturally. There’s the improvisational freedom of the Dave Matthews Band and Phish, the raw edge of the Pixies, and the melodic instinct of the Beatles. But the goal was never homage. The goal was authenticity—to sound like a band that had lived together, struggled together, and learned how to tell one story through many voices. In the end, Things I Can’t Change isn’t about fixing the past. It’s about recognizing it—and choosing to move forward without denial. If this album is about surviving, processing, and accepting, the next chapter is already forming. The upcoming single “More & More” points toward what comes after: groove, movement, intimacy, and light. Where this record makes peace with what shaped you, the next will explore joy, gratitude, and what it means to live fully once the weight has been acknowledged. This album stands as proof that wounds do not disqualify you from beauty. Sometimes, they are the reason it exists.