Greta Morgan has come a long way. As the vocalist/pianist of the Hush Sound, the band came up alongside fellow Fueled By Ramen alumni like Fall Out Boy, Paramore, and Yellowcard in the mid-2000s. In fact, Pete Wentz recruited them to sign to the label after inviting the band to open for Fall Out Boy in northern Illinois. In the years since, Morgan has gone on to become a touring member of Vampire Weekend, performed (and created a deep friendship) with Jenny Lewis, and garnered popularity with her own vulnerable solo projects. However, after contracting COVID-19 in 2020, she was diagnosed with spasmodic dysphonia, a disorder that made her unable to sing. With her voice stifled, the future of her career was unknown — a period of grief, community, and resilience that’s brilliantly documented in her new book, The Lost Voice: A Memoir.
“Writing this book was my roadmap out of the dark,” Morgan tells AP. “It saved my spirit at a time when I was so depressed that I felt like I was disappearing. It allowed me to understand my past in a way that will create space for an entirely different future. I needed to write this book for myself, whether or not it would be published. Dear readers, please trust your singular voice, both literally and metaphorically. If your life falls to pieces, that might be a rare chance to build something new. Your healing will not look like anyone else’s healing. No one can create the perfect path for you. Follow your intuition. Grief is the tax we pay for loving well.”
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The veteran musician doesn’t lack any advice for those trying to find or reclaim their own voice, either, saying, “Play, play, play. Give yourself permission to make the worst art possible. Delight yourself, enchant yourself, crack yourself up, make yourself cry. If you change your life by making your art, it’s possible you will change someone else’s life, too.”
In an exclusive excerpt from the singer’s heart-on-sleeve memoir, she gives us an inside look at the Hush Sound’s first show with Fall Out Boy in May 2005 — and how it set them on the path for greater acclaim.
HarperCollins
After that show, buzz about our band reached Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy, who invited us to open for them in northern Illinois. A few weeks later, we pulled into the backstage parking lot of the Forest Hills Lodge in Rockford, Illinois, parking my mom’s SUV next to Fall Out Boy’s shining silver behemoth of a tour bus. Pete swung the door open and invited us in. The bus reminded me of summer camp—bunks stacked atop each other, three on each side, littered with denim jackets, sweatshirts, and sneakers. It smelled like stale pizza and sweat. In the front lounge, Pete said he’d been listening to “Crawling Towards the Sun” on repeat. His thick black eyeliner made him look sleep-deprived.
Of the four bands, I was the only woman on the bill. Backstage, the throng of male musicians wore skinny jeans, studded leather belts, and the emo version of a mop top—overgrown, choppy hair swept mysteriously over one eye. As I took in the scene of all these boys milling about, I wondered, Is he cute? Is he cute? Is that one cute?
We set up our equipment and sound-checked before the audience arrived. Once the theater doors opened, I peered out from the side-stage as the room floor filled with Fall Out Boy’s fans. They looked like a cult—a giant sea of dyed-black hair and black Fall Out Boy sweatshirts with big white printed hearts. When you unzipped the sweatshirt, the heart was meant to break in half.
They’re gonna hate us, I thought, especially my piano ballads. My nerves were on fire as Darren counted off the first song, “Crawling Towards the Sun,” and I plunked the piano chords. I stared at my hands, not able to bear seeing the audience’s reaction.
Thankfully, Bob performed with a confident, visceral energy. He took jerky steps back and forth while strumming to the beat, bobbing his shoulders side to side. My mind repeated, Don’t mess up, don’t mess up, don’t mess up, which made me so rigid that my body was barely moving, other than my hands. By the second chorus, I peeked up and noticed people in the front row mouthing the words. By the last chorus, even more people were singing. Pete and Patrick Stump, the lead singer of Fall Out Boy, were watching side-stage, nodding their heads.
Next, we played my song “Weeping Willow.” It began with one verse that was just my soft voice and piano. The snow won’t stick to the weeping willow, I sang. Some folks in the front row looked confused, like they were tyring to solve an algebra equation in their heads, but when the boys kicked in for the second verse, the audience started moving, shoulders swaying to the beat. By the time we reached the last chorus, people were also singing along. Song by song, chorus by chorus, we won them over. The rest of our set whirled by in a blur. By the end, I was having so much fun that I broke through my shyness and shoulder-danced a little bit behind my keyboard. When we finished, I was so charged up from the crowd’s energy that I felt like I could’ve single-handedly pushed Fall Out Boy’s tour bus up a hill.
As we walked offstage, we exchanged sweaty high-fives with the Fall Out Boy guys and Pete told us we were his new favorite band. “You’ll probably sell out of T-shirts tonight, but save a couple for us, can you?” he asked.
I hadn’t heard much of their music, so I was surprised by what showmen they were. Onstage the band thrashed around at high speed and their mosh pit was a cyclone of flailing limbs—it looked more like an exorcism than a concert. Pete windmilled his bass in circles, then climbed on top of the bass drum and leaped off it ten feet to the ground. Seeing them create such a euphoric pandemonium made me wonder whether our music, too, could excite a crowd like that someday.
At the merch table, someone asked for my autograph for the first time. I reached for the marker and hesitantly printed my name on their arm. When someone asked me to sign a T-shirt, I tried writing my initials in cursive. For the next autograph, I drew a smiley face and wrote GRETA curved upward on either side as the smile.
Excerpted from THE LOST VOICE by Greta Morgan and reprinted with permission from HarperOne, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Copyright 2025.
