Lots of folks head to Los Angeles to get famous. Lianna has always been here, watching them come and go. Desperate girls in tube tops and ass-out shorts. Emotionally unavailable men with loose morals. How they do the dance, swirling in a vaped-up scene of big dreams and broken hearts. Inside the breathless swells of Lianna’s lore, everyone’s pretty, and nobody’s happy.

The Los Angeles native wrote her first songs in her childhood trailer park bedroom just steps from the Pacific. It was the constant sound of crashing waves combined with the unrelenting torture of teenage social pressure that forced this angel-voiced guitar goddess into a life of music and magic.

A seamless mix of Bob Dylan-style storytelling and Mazzy Star shoegaze, her summertime dream pop maps Instagram-era Hollywood drama onto sweeping classic melodies that stand on the shoulders of several generations of towering troubadours. Velvety rich, yet somehow ethereal, her devastating voice, thick with folky vibrato, takes us from the mountains of Malibu to the barrooms of Silver Lake, where we meet surfers, starfuckers, dreamers and douchebags. Some are talented, most are troubled. Lianna’s heartbreaking ballads tell the true story of West Coast cool, pitfalls and all.
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