Dylan Dhindsa keeps making the same mistakes.
The 23-year-old singer-songwriter and Culver City transplant, whose new song “Home Is Not a Place” drops on April 17, 2026, is making a musical career out of processing his romantic, idealistic tendencies. Ones that see him getting hurt in ways he recognizes. Ones that see him getting trapped in patterns.
“One thing about me is I’m kind of a drama queen,” Dhindsa admitted to me over the phone. “So anytime I get the opportunity to make something a bigger deal than it is, I feel like that is helpful for me.”
Dhindsa is being cheeky. Listening to his music, you don’t get the sense that he’s being overly dramatic. Rather, Dhindsa’s mournful music, which sounds like a unique mix of contemporary pop and synthy ‘80s love ballads, simply examines the kind of mundane heartbreak that might otherwise go unnoticed. It’s reminiscent of early Taylor Swift: intimate and unafraid to indulge the big feelings that stem from the everyday.
His song “Every Time” is about ignoring red flags in new, exciting relationships and opening yourself up to hurt. And then doing it again.
“Raceway” is about being excited for a date at the Richmond International Raceway before getting stood up. The track represents the feeling of moving forward, but ending up going in circles.
It’s recognizable and relatable, the kinds of self-destructive behaviors and ideals that young people feel alone in experiencing but would do well to remember are universally felt. It’s also an exercise in reclaiming your story.
“Instead of this song really being about someone who stood me up or did me dirty, now it can be about my art,” Dhindsa said.
This theme of reclamation can be seen throughout much of Dhindsa’s relationship to music, which began at a Richmond-based, religiously-affiliated community theater group when Dhindsa was 10. Dhindsa is Christian, as well as gay, two things that don’t always go neatly hand-in-hand. It was something that his theater group pointed at as a contradiction.
“I did not agree with much of what they were saying,” Dhindsa said. “So once I got to high school, I kind of started branching out on my own.”
The association complicated his relationship with music for a time. It had gone from a safe, carefree environment to one where he felt judged. But Dhindsa was not cowed, and did not let it drive him away from his faith.
“For me, faith is so much more of a personal thing than a societal or communal thing,” Dhinsda said.
He did a close reading of the Bible, finding that anti-LGBTQ sentiment is not grounded in anything substantial, and concluded that his faith doesn’t have to be about anybody else.
“It’s about me and my relationship with God,” Dhindsa said. “I try to explore that in my own music as well.”
These echoes can be clearly heard throughout his work. Just as Dhindsa refuses to let the guy who stood him up on a date have the final word on the story, he refuses to let how other people weaponize their faith affect his relationship with his own. He takes these things — these warts, these heartbreaks, these contradictions, these things that threaten to control his narrative — and turns them into a narrative of his own.
A question Dhindsa posed: “How can I communicate what I’m feeling in an artful way?”
He has the answer. All you have to do is listen to his music to hear it.
Brett Morrow
