Austin Expats: Noe Saenz

MOST PEOPLE AT A SHOW or open mic remember the very first and very last song most clearly. Artists in the middle of a lineup, no matter how great their performances may be, are unfairly pitted against our own cognitive bias (also known as the serial position effect, if you want to get technical about it).

But artists like Noe Saenz find ample room in our memories: they are so distinct, so commanding, so awe-inspiring, it’s impossible to forget them.

I first heard Noe at the Mozart’s open mic, a beloved incubator of talent in the Austin music scene. He was far from the only incredible performer there, but someone like Noe, with such a firm grasp on their abilities, can be intimidating—when he steps off stage, there are bound to be a dozen other artists whirling around like the confused John Travolta meme from Pulp Fiction, as if to say, “Well, what do I do now?”

For better or worse, Noe’s voice is what immediately draws attention: it’s powerful and incredibly agile. Capable of vocal gymnastics not unlike Mariah Carey or Christina Aguilera, he inevitably pulls wild cheers from the crowd with falsetto leaps and sophisticated runs. But the more you listen to Noe, you appreciate that there is a layer of experimentation and thoughtful craft that is arguably more impressive than his voice. His sets are expressive and wide-ranging: he’s as comfortable covering Bob Dylan’s “It Ain’t Me Babe” as he is “Kiss Me” by Sixpence None the Richer, and his influences range from Justin Timberlake to Linkin Park to Paramore. 

Noe blends this all into a very distinct style, a stellar example of which is his song “Lo Mein”—the first one I ever heard him play. It’s a sweet song, an indie pop ode to pandemic times (takeout food, pajamas, dancing around the house) with a lush, romantic arrangement of layered guitars and synth that’s almost Cure-esque in production. It’s also an excellent showcase of Noe’s strong pop sensibility: the chorus is gorgeous and, dare I say it, infectious. But it’s true: Lo Mein was the reason many people, myself included, caught Noe fever, and it became a singalong favorite among his many fans here. 

Noe’s dynamo performances and songwriting chops quickly established him in Austin: everyone who saw him was consistently awed. He also became an impromptu voice coach (given his degree in Music Education) and a trusted source for feedback on songwriting for many in the scene. So when he decided to move away from Austin in the summer of 2022, I was not alone in being devastated. Just when we were getting used to having him around, he and his partner Sean (also a talented singer and actor) packed up and headed to the Big Apple, where they’ve been thriving ever since. 

This is the second article in what hopefully won’t be a long-running series where we talk with artists who graced the Austin music scene with their presence but have since flown the coop (see the first one here). I recently caught up with Noe to talk about his South Texas roots, his flourishing as an artist in Austin, and how he’s using the lessons he’s learned to take his career even further in his new home of NYC.

THE AUSTIN BLUEBONNET: Let’s talk about Brownsville, where you’re from, and what brought you from there to Austin.

NOE SAENZ: It’s so tricky to talk about Brownsville because I have such a soft spot for it. It's my home. It's where I grew up. It's where all my family and friends are. But it's just not the best environment for growth.

Brownsville is such a small city: very closed-minded, very tiny. You’re aware that if you don't get out of Brownsville, you kind of get stuck in Brownsville. And the Valley in general, the RGV, South Texas: people try to get out just to experience other things because if you don't, you don't really grow. For me, the music scene there, as fun as it is, it just gets so closed and there's nowhere else to go. 

So there was already kind of that itchy feeling of, “I don't wanna get stuck here in South Texas.” Sean and I were looking into Nashville, but we didn't want to be too far away from family or friends, and we had a lot of friends in Austin already. Plus, being from Texas, you hear that Austin's like the hot spot for music. So we're like, “Yeah, let's do it. Let's see what it feels like to be out of our home and figure it out.”

And you’d been playing music for a while in Brownsville, including in a band. I imagine that even though Austin was exciting, it was tough to leave that behind.

I still swear by it: if you ever go down to Brownsville or the RGV, you will find the absolute most talented people you've ever met. Like my band there, Garden Party. Shout out to Chato, Miguel, and Angel. They are each so talented and thriving in their own art right now and I can't be more proud. They're kind of a testament to how not all journeys are the same. 

My journey was lonely and confusing and I was starting to feel like I was getting stuck. I wanted to be around people who were like-minded, who wanted to pursue music, who wanted to learn more about songwriting, who wanted to find community. And that's exactly what Austin gave me.

I think all artists go through this, where they hit these inflection points of growth. They look around and say, “OK, I think I've done my time here, or the people that I need to be around are not here because the things that I need are different now.” 

I’m glad you feel like you found a sense of community in Austin after realizing you needed a change. Tell me about that process.

So that's a funny story. We moved in January of 2020. So we were expecting something totally different than we got that first year.

That was a little rough because I was ready to dive in like headfirst: “Let's go. Let's do as much as we can here. This is a new city. No one knows me. This is time to show people who I am.” 

I did as much as I could as far as trying to introduce myself online. But I quickly realized that Austin isn't really a good place for that. It's more of an in-person place. Everyone wants to connect personally. And when I was starting to get the grasp on that, I was like, “Oh OK. There's a pandemic.”

But overall, once pandemic restrictions were lifted, the open mics—Mozart's, Opa, House Wine, all the ones that we used to frequent—I can't say enough about them. The biggest sense of community was through those open mics because you got to see people who have been doing music for a very long time playing in the same space as people who are just picking it up, or maybe not as determined, or who had a different skill level, different dream level. Everyone was free to just share music for music's sake. There was such a heavy emphasis on support and specifically support for the craft of writing. 

People typically just compliment my singing every time they hear me. “Hey, your riffs are cool.” “Hey, your high notes are awesome.” “Hey, your voice is amazing.” And I always appreciate it. But when I went to Austin, there was a focus on just the craft of music. People were actually paying attention, and I think that's what I loved the most.

Coming from Brownsville, where you didn’t feel a lot of support, how did going to the Austin open mics and enmeshing yourself in that community impact your songwriting?

If I can stray a little bit from the answer only because I don't feel like it directly impacted my songwriting per se: it impacted me as a whole person. It wasn't even just the music scene, it was everyone. I worked a really good job at Relay Texas. And the people there—Austin is just such a special place. I miss it every single day, and it's mostly because of the people. 

There is just such a huge sense of community, even outside of music, and the support and the community that I felt has impacted me with my confidence. I struggled with my time in Brownsville because I felt like I was doing the most that I can with people who couldn't care less. No one cared about what I was doing. And that really, really wasn't great for my confidence. 

So when I went to Austin and everybody was just throwing these compliments—and they're not throwing them just because they want to, they're sitting down and taking the time to tell me, “Hey, this is really good, I enjoy it”—it was honestly really overwhelming. In the best way, I guess. But I even had to tell Chris [Chris Kalin, one of the core Mozart’s open micers in 2021] one day, I was like, “Dude, you need to stop with the compliments.” I was like, “Oh shit, I don't really know how to deal with all of this right now.” [laughs]

I've never seen someone not take a compliment like Noe Saenz. Immediately you're like, “All right, let's talk about something else.” 

[laughs] Well, not to bring trauma into it but it's because in the Valley, people did want to compliment you, but there was always—and I mean literally 98% of the time—people were like, “Oh, that was good,” but really meaning, “I don't want to praise you right now.”

Is it a jealousy thing? Like, “I envy your talent, and I don't want to acknowledge it”? Or is it a subtle “I don't want to encourage this thing that's gonna separate you from this community”?

Well, after processing it all, I definitely feel like half the time it's jealousy and half the time it's because they want to keep us in Brownsville. I can't say for certain, but that's just the vibe, and it's one of those unspoken vibes where like if you talk about it, you're kind of a bitch. 

That definitely kind of puts into context your unpreparedness with compliments.

That’s not to say that I never got any. There's always gonna be sweet people everywhere, especially being from a predominantly Hispanic community. There's people who are just sweet to be sweet, but I genuinely feel like most of the time, those are the ones who don't really necessarily care about music or performing or performers. They're just being sweet to be sweet.

So when you're talking about the specific people who really want to do this and really want to give music a fair shot, that's when it gets really iffy because there is that kind of unspoken competition.

That must have felt so liberating to put all that behind. You don't have any sort of history with Austin when you move here: it's just a completely fresh start. It's also in this environment that I personally feel is not competitive or transactional. That's not to say that people who have a particular agenda or don't care about anything but themselves don't exist here. But it’s so rare. I imagine that was pretty refreshing and helped you feel welcome here.

For sure. And looking back on it, you could feel it. The general consensus was, “Hey, this is a safe space.” Almost always. I wonder if there was one person who was maybe a little douche-y. We all kind of knew—we all kind of just side-eyed each other and were like, “Hey, that's the one that is not a team player.”

I think we know who we're talking about.

[laughs] Not gonna name names.

We'll save that for a later documentary about this time, where we really dish on all the drama. But you're totally right. Those people stand out so much when you do see them and you're like, “Oh wow, like this, this person just doesn't know what we're all about.”

You brought up confidence earlier. Tell me more about what it was like in terms of really getting more engaged in the Austin scene and developing yourself.

I don't want to drift too far from music, but it’s just support for me. Support there in Austin went such a long way for my confidence specifically.

I think everybody who I met in Austin and just the Austin culture in general is not only so supportive, but they give you a space to also push yourself safely. Every time that I would play around you, around Dan Cohen, around Chris Kalin, around all these incredible musicians that I now call my friends, it was like, “Look at what they are doing—let's try to match them.”

It was the complete opposite of Brownsville, where you're half fighting and half wanting validation. Austin doesn't really care, in the best way. If you are starting off, we are going to clap for you. If you are a Grammy award winner, we are gonna clap for you, and it's gonna be the same way every single time. And the crowd of Austin themselves: every time I would play a gig there, it was just so supportive. I felt like I didn’t have to fight like I did before. It made me be like, “OK, well, what else? How far can you go? What else can you do? What other songs can you make?” 

It was exciting to me to hear all of these people and their caliber. When you have friends who are so good at what they do and make music for music's sake, it made me feel comfortable enough to stop giving a shit about where I'm supposed to be. It made me realize: make the fucking art! These are people who work on their craft so hard, and that stuff is so fun and exciting to me and it made me really want to do that more.

The craft of songwriting definitely became way more top of mind for me in Austin. When you have that community, you start thinking about things a little more deeply. Like “Ok, yes, I've heard this song from Noe before, but now I'm able to pick out things that I didn't hear the first time.” 

So I can totally see how you'd be really fired up with the art of songwriting itself and going in different directions and seeing what comes out of that because there's so many people around you who are showcasing that.

Exactly. I was so amazed every time anybody we knew was like, “Hey, I wrote this shit today, I'm gonna play it.” I'm like, “What the fuck?” Never would I ever do that. But that's what I mean about the safe space.

And I think you made a really good point about it because the more we heard each other, the more we supported each other, the more we were just like, “I understand,” right? It gave me the sense of safety because it was like, “We understand you, we are enjoying it,” and you could always trust our friends and the audiences would respond honestly.

It was always good feedback, without them really knowing. I'd be like, “Hey, those claps were literally not as loud as the others. Something in this is not vibing with them.” And that also was exciting cause it gave me reasons to think: “Is it the whole song itself? Was it the melody they didn't like? Should I change something lyrically?” I always thought that Austin was so good at being supportive, yes, but also showing you where you could improve.

I love how you've been careful to say this isn't just about music: this is about you as a person. I think about not only the number of friends that I made through the different places in Austin and different open mics, but some of the conversations I had with those people. A lot of the time, with someone like Nick Azlon, I'd sit down with him and talk about philosophy and business or like some random thing, and we'd be going on for hours. We're sitting there and we're listening to the open mic and we're talking about music, but there's also so many other things happening where we're connecting on a much deeper level.

One million jillion percent. I think that the people in Austin don't get recognized as much, you know? It’s a famous music scene, yes. But it's because of everyone there. The people of Austin are what make the music scene because they care: they care about the craft and they care about the artists.

Tell me about the decision to move away from Austin. What prompted that? And what made you choose New York City?

Ok. Are you ready for this movie? I didn't want to move from Austin. I wanted to fucking stay there forever! [laughs]

I felt like I still had so much to do. But Sean was getting more antsy because he has just as big dreams as I do. And he's like, “Hey, we moved out of Brownsville to a music city that caters more to songwriters. I wanna try doing my thing in New York.”

He's a musical theater person, a performer and a composer. We had a conversation and I felt like it was my time to support him. Also, it's New York. It wasn't like I was gonna be in the desert with no music community. It’s just as big there. So I was like, “Yeah, let's fucking go for it. I have nothing to lose and it's gonna benefit him more.” So we just did it.

That's so amazing that you supported him in that way, as a partner. Also, it blows my mind that you were only in Austin for two years. That seems crazy to think. 

Talk to me about New York City itself. Obviously, it's such a huge part of American culture and identity. Everybody has a certain formation of New York City in their mind from some particular movie or TV show or time period. So even though leaving Austin was tough, I’m sure NYC is exciting, and a lot different.

What’s your experience been like there?

I'm great now, but those first six months were terrible. If Austin taught me confidence because it was so open and supportive and safe, New York is not like that.

You have to really show up and show out and wanna be here because if not, the city is gonna eat you. I was depressed for six months, trying to adjust. I was still learning the speed of the city and I don't think I was really open to connections. It was a struggle to find community. 

But eventually I found Queerchella, which is a music festival here created by Dan Kiernan and Price Troche. They give a stage to queer acts from all around the city, and everyone I've met has been insanely talented and insanely sweet. It was probably Queerchella that really jolted me back into reality.

Performing at Queerchella for the first time was a fucking moment. I had been so depressed until then, but when I sang the first sentence and the crowd literally went insane, I was shook. I thought that Austin was supportive, but these people are wild. 

When I got off the stage—I don't know if you've ever experienced this, but I really hope you have—when your body knows that you've done amazing and it's just shaking. I don't even remember what happened, but my body does and my body said it was great.

I went to Sean, who was fortunate enough to be there, and he looks at me and says, “This is the crowd that you deserve.” 

I'm never gonna forget that because he meant it so sincerely. He's been through every single moment of my journey in music. We've been together for 10, going on 11 years. So to hear him say that also made me feel like I've arrived where I wanted to be, at least as a performer. In Austin, of course there were cheers and hollers to an amazing solo or an impressive vocal riff. But it was always done kinda classy. NYC people will be hollering while you sing (respectfully) just for you to know you're giving them life.

So to hear that kind of response was more than enough. That day really jolted me into hustling and working harder. 

That's what I love so much about you being in New York City. As difficult as it was to leave Austin, I think you have different elements of your personality that both Austin and New York City appeal to. Austin is quieter, where you can focus on the craft of songwriting. But I think New York City is a perfect place for you to push yourself. 

Yeah. Austin gave me confidence. I finally fully understand who I am as a person: how I work, how I do things, how I talk to people, what I can bring to the table, my strengths, my weaknesses. That's what Austin taught me and showed me, because it gave me that space to. 

But here in New York and with Queerchella, it's teaching me how to show myself most authentically. I see these performers and yes, they have gorgeous fits and they're so showy and big and powerful on stage. But they know how to fucking highlight themselves the whole time. Someone might be the best vocalist, but you're not paying attention to that when they're showing you their charming charisma and how they move and how they say a lyric and how they dress. They showcase the best of themselves. And that's what I'm trying to do more of: show myself to the best of my ability.

I can argue that how I speak really awkwardly and try to make jokes out of my awkwardness is part of my stage presence. That's something that I had to learn, too. But there's not a lot of space for that Noe banter here because here it's so fast paced, which is why it's harder for me. Here, you have to engage in such a different way. You have such a small amount of time to show them that. And I think that's been really fun for me to figure out how, in my body and my performance and how I'm appearing to these people, I can show that quirky banter-eque-ness. [laughs] That was not a word.

I was going to say, that's one of the things I loved about your performances in Austin: you have so much charisma, so much that I don't think you even realize. And it was so funny to watch—you'd go up for a performance and you'd be so nervous and it was so clear on your face that you were stressing about something, and then the moment you started playing, you're the smoothest person ever. You naturally slip into this very entertaining, in-command type of persona where even if you make a mistake or you slip up, you're so adept at acknowledging it, making it funny and endearing, and staying in performance mode. 

How are you making choices when you're on stage that still display that part of your personality, but in a way that suits a New York City audience?

Gosh, I wish I knew. Sometimes I've done shows where I try to do playful banter, but it's kind of like New York City doesn't care about charm: they want to be entertained and fill the music space. I know that sounds kind of terrible, but when you're here, you get it.

You have to stand out in what you're doing. I think vocally is where I've been doing it. My voice has never failed me before and I've been leaning into it, just trusting my voice. Actually, that's a really good way to sum it all up. If Austin taught me confidence and gave me space to play and be me and then grow, New York is teaching me to trust in all of that. I've already put in that work. 

It sounds like Austin prepared you well for New York City.

Yeah, exactly. If I had gone from Brownsville to New York, there's no way. I would have cried and never went back. I needed to figure all this shit out and Austin was the most incredible place to do it. And I tell Sean, I want to move back maybe in the next five years or so, but we're loving it here and kind of thriving here.

* * *

Formative years in creative communities can shape our overall development as people, no doubt. Sometimes, though, the most significant takeaway is not what those communities instilled in us, but rather who they allowed us to be. 

In Noe’s case, I believe that’s true. He fit right in with the songwriter community here, but I also saw glimpses of a flashier, more showy stage persona from him that Austin was often a little too laid-back to enable. In the jostling, noisy, blurry subway speed of NYC life, however, it makes sense that he’s exploring how to make himself appear larger, more distinct. And his recorded music—in contrast to his live performances that were largely acoustic—has already been a showcase of the different sides of his personality and ability.

Take “Unwanted,” a vulnerable song where he opens up to a lover about feeling a lack of emotional connection and questions their commitment. But with a bouncy, edgy production and swagger and sass not unlike *NSYNC’s “It’s Gonna Be Me,” he does so in an assertive, self-affirming way. Heavy guitars and prominent, powerful drums add confidence to the sensitivity, and the refrain of “I’m feeling unwanted” is as much a lament as it is a defiant warning: if Noe is feeling unwanted, well, you fucked things up pretty seriously, didn’t you?

“Hideaway,” on the other hand, shows a moodier and even more vulnerable side of Noe. With a muted kick drum and swells of cold, airy synth notes swirling around him, he sings about feeling isolated and lost: ”I haven’t left this bed I lie upon, I haven’t felt the sun.” In a cloud of depression, the passage of time becomes a “neverending drum,” keeping count of the “fragile life” we live.

But despite the loneliness and confusion, there’s a lining of optimism, a hope that his salvation lies in someone helping him get out of his own head:

“Show me how to live, show me how to live, when all I want is to hide away. Shake this body, move these limbs, make me feel alive again.” 

“Hideaway” is perhaps the other side of a coin with “Lo Mein”: if that song is a celebration of finding comfort in isolation through simple pleasures with your partner, “Hideaway” is a rejection of isolation, a desire to move and dance once more with the rhythms of the outside world. 

When I look at his catalog of recorded music so far, though, there’s one song in particular that defines Noe and the energy and passion he’s capable of. Not all musicians are lucky enough to have a signature song, and even if they are, it comes with a risk of putting them on only one particular genre shelf—but in Noe’s case, I believe he’s reaping the benefits and avoiding that risk, namely because his signature song is such a wonderful demonstration of his many talents. 

His cover of Selena’s “Si Una Vez” drew universal acclaim in the Austin music scene and was often the closer to his sets. It’s the song that people would request the most at his shows, the one they’d absolutely lose their minds over when he played. No matter where you might know him from, or if you’ve heard him solo or with a band, this song encompasses Noe from multiple angles: his South Texas roots, his Mexican heritage, his incredible vocal ability, and his unabashed dominance as a performer. The fact that Noe can take such an iconic song and make it his own is a testament to how great he is. And it’s not that he does it better than Selena: he simply puts his heart into it. Listen to the live version here, and you’ll see exactly what I mean.

Fortunately for us, across a range of influences and styles, Noe has consistently understood how to put his heart into his work and naturally produce some kind of magic. May he keep soaking up inspiration from wherever his career takes him, so we can all continue to see the multifaceted artist that he is.