One of Buffalo’s Premiere Queer Voices
Michael Farrow is a solo artist, composer, and musician based in Buffalo, NY. Known for his powerful stage presence, soulful voice, and fearless lyrics, Farrow’s music is as revolutionary as it is healing. As we launch our first issue of Proud Voice, we are proud to spotlight Michael as one of Buffalo’s premier queer artists.
PV: What is your process for songwriting? Which comes first: the lyrics or the tune? MF: It depends. When I’m working solo, sometimes it starts with a riff or a feeling on the guitar. But when I’m with the band, it’s almost always lyrics first. I follow a practice from The Artist’s Way called “morning pages,” and a lot of my songs grow from there. “Steal My Joy” came from a riff the band played in rehearsal, and “I Only Want to Love You” arrived fully formed — melody and lyrics all at once. It’s not always the same, but it always starts with truth.
Where does your inspiration come from? Are there artists or activists that have inspired you? Ani DiFranco has been a huge influence — not just musically, but in how she moves between the personal and the political. I try to write songs that move from “me” to “you” to “us.” That structure helps me write through things without getting stuck. There’s something powerful about taking a personal moment and letting it bloom into something collective.
How is your music different when you perform solo as MQFarrow versus with your big band, Farrow? When I’m solo, I can control the pace and the intimacy. It’s slower, more vulnerable, more emotional. I can talk about very specific local issues — it’s hyperlocal and direct. But when I’m with the band, it’s about joy. It’s about making a space that feels good to be in. Billy Bragg said musicians aren’t organizers, we’re more like hosts of the party. And that’s how I see the band — we’re building a joyful, powerful space where people can come together.
How did a music career happen for you? Was music around you growing up? I grew up in church. I was part of starting a church in North Carolina that grew to be pretty big. Church music was all around me, but not much else — I didn’t grow up listening to the Beatles or “Sweet Caroline,” so I don’t know most of that popular music. What I did know was harmony, emotion, and conviction. I also started a digital music class at a charter school, so I’ve always had this impulse to create new spaces and try new things.
You write honestly about racism, homophobia, inequity, and many social issues. Are you writing from experience or observing the lives of people around you? Being that I’m a non-binary — which I didn’t even have the term for until later in life — Black queer person, I’ve always inhabited this space of being the “other.” Fatness and Blackness come together in a very important way for me, especially when we’re talking about social inequity. One of the most common, overlooked forms of oppression is fatphobia. It causes immense heartache and pain, but we dismiss it by calling it a “health crisis,” when in reality, “obesity” is a term rooted more in insurance schemes than actual health.
So when I see a comedy show or a movie, and suddenly there’s a joke at the expense of someone’s body size — or when I experience rejection because of my size — it’s not just irritating, it’s deeply hurtful. I know what it feels like to be denied opportunity because of how I show up in the world. That’s why I write about these things — because they’re personal, but they also reflect the world around me.
When I first moved to Buffalo, I took my neighbor to Carrabba’s so he could get BB gun ammo. He brought the BB gun with him, and someone must have seen it in the back seat. As we drove from the Galleria Mall, I was pulled over and held at gunpoint on the I-90. Six cop cars, guns drawn, yelling, forcing me to throw my keys and lie on the ground. And once they realized there was no danger, they just let me go. But the fear — the trauma — stays with you. Because all it takes is one cop to be scared, and then you’re dead. And it’s justified. That reality informs everything I write.
You host open mics — are you still doing Gypsy Parlor? What interests you about these testing grounds? I love celebrating people making art. Any time someone gets up on stage — whether they’re speaking, singing, doing poetry, whatever — it’s a bold statement of being alive. Of choosing to live. Humans are unique in that we don’t just adapt to our environment — we shape it, we build beauty into it. We create meaning by opening ourselves to one another and being willing to risk embarrassment in public. That’s magic.
I’ve been to open mics at hostels, at bars, in spaces where the talent level varies wildly — and I don’t go because I love hearing bad musicians. I go because I love witnessing people try. People doing something brave and creative, especially when it’s outside their comfort zone. That’s powerful to me. It’s a small act of bravery — a creation act instead of a destruction act. And that kind of bravery builds something real for the whole community.
As for Gypsy Parlor — yes, I’m still hosting there on Wednesday nights. And I hope people keep showing up and taking that chance.
We are living in strange, fearful, and uncertain times. How do you
believe art and culture play a part in healing and finding a way out? The
role of art and culture has always been twofold: to create space, and to speak truth — to power, and to the people. If your platform isn’t large, you speak truth to your immediate community. That still matters. Right now, I’m leaning into hyperlocality — getting to really know my neighbors, showing up for each other in real ways.
Capitalism thrives on isolation. It wants us all struggling alone, trying to make ends meet in silence. But if we could be honest and vulnerable about what we need —and what we have to give — we’d see there’s actually enough. There is abundance. But we’re trapped in this myth of scarcity because we aren’t working together. Art can help us remember that we’re not alone. It can reconnect us to each other.
What does LGBTQ Pride mean to you in 2025? The first Pride was a riot. So if the first Pride was a riot, then that element of rebellion needs to still be present in every Pride that follows. Pride is about being visible — about being seen, being who you are, however you are.
It doesn’t mean you have to be on a float in a jockstrap and fairy wings — though if that’s you, do it. But for me, Pride is about authenticity. It’s about showing up as your real self, every day of the year, and celebrating the fact that you’ve survived, that you’ve created something, that you exist as you are. Pride is not just a moment. It’s an ongoing act.